The night is still young. The beautiful people are all in their various haunts, being beautiful and making other people wish they were beautiful also; the ladies that haunt the memory in their dresses cut to there, the men in their expensive suits cut just right, holding glasses of the best and laughing with the gay abandon of knowing that they are rich and beautiful and the envy of all who set eyes upon them. Somewhere.
     Somewhere else is quieter; laid back compared to the desperation that accompanies the fizziness of champagne. The night is just as young here - nine o'clock is early yet - but the sun has been to bed for a couple of hours nonetheless. It's here that the gilded chrysanthemum appears. Or perhaps reappears.
     It begins with the click of foolish, impractical shoes on the parquet. If it were Fiona, it would be chunky, three-inch wedge-heeled Bond girl boots, but this is not that. Instead, it's a pair of prim little boots that end at the ankle in dark green leather with a lighter green velvet bow, the wobbly point to the heels sharper than need be. It lifts her height from tiny to merely improbably short, pushing her from well under five feet to only just about dead even with it. She's gained a bit of practice, but there's still the sharp click-clack as she pushes through the doors and into the lounge.
     Moving up from the ankles; it's a look that Stevie Nicks could have worn proudly, once upon a time. Long layered skirts are the colour and consistency of old lace - not dazzling enough for a bride in their whiteness, but acceptable enough for regret; the suspicion has been raised that purity is overrated, and that suggestion has muddled the brightness. A tailored blouse of the same whiteness is tucked in firmly, with a dark green and dark gold paisley-print vest worn over.
     Lastly, the chrysanthemum hair is gone; it's gone to seed, it's grown. Audi has let her hair grow unchecked, long enough to cover her shoulderblades and no longer. It still has that faintly burnished gold colour, the dark blonde that borders on going to red and brown but doesn't quite make it; it grows in untidy waves that the slightest hint of Mother Nature's presence sets to disarray. And while she wears a couple of bracelets and a necklace, there are no earrings; there are no rings. She steps inside and crosses the floor halfway before the footsteps slow, and one blue eye and one green eye both look around the interior with a quick, brief interrogation.
     Well, world? I'm still here. Still not quite what you expected, am I? And still not sure what to expect...

     And the days go by...
     Like a strand in the wind...
     In the web that is my own...
     I begin again
     Said to my friend, baby...
     Nothin' else mattered
     Just like the white wing dove sings a song sounds like she's singing...ooh baby ooh say ooh...
     When she comes into the place, she makes an instant racket, a ruckus of sight and sound. There's no one else like her. Davydd looks up from his Guinness, a curling trail of smoke escaping from parted lips. It's a face that seems familiar but he can't quite place her. His eyes feel her out, like the padding fingers of the blind.
     Dark green eyes squint and bronze eyebrows knit together in his consideration, trying to put his finger on it: who she is, where he's seen her, what it means. He taps his cigarette, the ash scattering into the waiting plastic ashtray.
     Davydd ap Owain sits alone -- at least for the time being. He's between functions, between parties. on the precipice of an interesting evening. In front of him, the dark brew. He's clothed in his black leather coat, white sweater and black wool pants that makes him out to be a regular Gentleman's Quarterly sort of fellow.
     I've seen you before... somewhere. I've just seen a face I can't forget...
     Or words to that effect.

     She is, at least at first, unaware of your presence; unaware that there is anyone here who she knows. Who knows her. Who is there, really, who knows her? She slows to a halt, looks around briefly, one small hand lifting to push her hair back from her face and then joined by the other. She lifts her hair onto the top of her head and exhales, blows air out past her lips in a lingering, frustrated sigh.
     Can't stop. Keep running, running, running, rabbit, keep running. Where are you running to? Not even digging holes, just running, running, running. They say rabbits always run in a circle...
     She is just as tiny as she was the last time you saw her, even if she has longer hair. Longer hair, different clothes, but the same mismatched eyes, and no sign of the lopsided, crooked smile bursting at the seams with warmth and sunshine. Not now; not yet. Not for a while. She crosses to the bar to get herself a drink, both hands still prim on the edge of the long counter as she leans forward and a little bit up. "I'd like ... something sweet, please. But not too sweet. It's a mistake to get things too sweet, don't you think? Because it's not very realistic, and anything being too sweet is hard to swallow. It's not real, but it's also just hard on the digestion, the constitution. Is there anything pink? Though maybe I shouldn't get pink; if I spill it, that might stain, and I'm pretty clumsy, you know. But ... pink. Oh, well. I know. A Cosmopolitan." A pause. "With extra cherries, please."
     If you do not recognize her for her clothing, perhaps the wandering path of her words will remind you, the picture she paints with them as surely as she ever drew for you with paper and pencils. But there is still the lack of sunlight. It is all clouded and dim. Audi is very serious, in her way, as she dredges up from her skirts her small purse with her identification (yes, sir, I really am old enough to be in here) and some crumpled notes. "Thank you..."

     "I have the sneaking suspicion that I owe you money. Or maybe you own me money." The voice is earthy, lilting. There is a watery quality to the way the words leave his tongue and drip down to your senses. Its owner is standing beside you, giving you that same considering stare, trying to sort you out, this out, something.
     It's as if he appeared there. In truth, he left his seat and moved to stand next to you while you were going on (and on) about the drink. Now he stands beside you, a copper eyebrow lifting in a slow arch. He's tall -- not horribly but in comparison to you, he's a freaking giant. He's broad as well, a veritable Welsh mountain peering at you.
     "...Sorry... but... have we met?" Davydd wonders. He looks to the bartender, tossing notes on the bar -- enough for the drink and a good tip. It's on me.
     "I don't usually lay a line like that out there... it's no pick-up. Just... you either remind me of someone I've forgotten or you're someone I should remember... I think..."

     Everyone is enormous compared to her; it's really only in order to feel less like an eight year old that she's taken to wearing high heels. Audi lets out a squeak of surprise, almost jumping but not quite, head snapping back to look up at you with round mismatched eyes. She looks out at the world through such eyes...
     "You're very big, aren't you."
     It's the first words out of her mouth, candid and serious, and she tries to offer you a smile. It is lopsided; it is warm. But it is also tremulous, and it fades away all too quickly, and quickly, she looks down, her hair sliding forward in front of her face. Impatiently, she lifts her hand to push it back and away again, turning to collect the drink you've bought for her. "It's very kind of you to buy me a drink. Unnecessary, really, I'm not desperate, really! but very nice of you, all the same. Don't worry. I don't feel picked up, though if you were to try, it'd be easy for you, wouldn't it? Me being so small and all, I'm sure you wouldn't even break a sweat. You could probably kill dragons with your bare hands, couldn't you."
     She is not sure of you; who you are, what you mean. Audi sneaks a peek at you, sidelong and up, then quickly looks down again, collecting the drink with both hands and carrying it up and in towards her chest as she slowly and carefully tiptoes around to face you again. "I'm used to being forgotten." The sentence slips out in a break in her own words, like a punch slipping through her defenses. She had not meant to be that honest; as honest as she always is, that was a little too honest even for her right now. The habitual and sunny optimism has faltered at last, has faded like the whiteness of her clothes. There is nothing blinding about it. She holds her glass in one hand, touching the sugared rim with a fingertip of the other hand, looking down at it before slowly looking up at you, determination lending a vigor to how she pushes herself away; she makes herself look at you. And besides, this way, maybe you won't notice things.
     "Oh, you! I remember you. You had that mission for the homeless or just the hungry, I forget which. We spent a night talking, once." Audi nods a little. Yes. She does remember you. She offers you another somewhat wobbling smile before looking down at her drink again. "...Hello."

     "I've killed my fair share of dragons," the droll tone tugs at the consonants and vowels of his words. As you recall him, he recalls you, pointing to you briefly. "Audi. The Girl With a Problem. Oes." You are still chatty as ever, but you lack the... effervescence of before. There is something amiss.
     "It's been a while. Davydd," he reintroduces. "Care to join me? And ... you're welcome... about the drink. If it makes you feel any better, you can buy the next round."
     Davydd gestures toward the booth where he was sitting and where his drink is still waiting. "What have you been up to since we spoke? Still having the same metaphysical issue?" Now that he has your name, he recalls your story. You are Cinderella, only without the glass slippers and the singing mice...
     "Right... the mission. The home for disadvantaged youth. It's still running." Davydd wanders back to his seat, taking up his cigarette again and giving it a puff to renew its life. Forest green eyes return to you. Is it small talk? Could he possibly give a shit about what is happening in your existence?

     "Thank you." She accepts your invitation gravely, looking up at you and then down again, down at her glass and its pink contents. It is the brightest thing about her, right now, rivaled only by her hair. She follows you to your table, takes a seat across from you, sets her glass down and sets herself down as if not quite sure where either of them belong. "I could buy one round, but not more than one. I shouldn't be buying drinks even for myself, not really. But I ... was missing colour."
     She is still chatty. And yet, she is still less chatty than she used to be, frightening as that is. Small hands take up a place together, fingers woven into a nest on the very edge of the table as she looks at you from across from you. Her chin is down a little, and she looks up at you through her eyelashes, not coyly or seductively but with the same grave uncertainty that seems to mark her down beneath the clothing.
     "I'm glad it's still running. There are always people who need help." Audi's glance flickers and lowers to the drink again. "Nothing's changed for me, I'm afraid. I'm very inconvenient and awkward. It would be more forgivable if I were at least built like a goddess or fairy tale heroine, but instead, I'm just ... me. Not one to know when to lie down and stay dead."
     Her shoulders lift in a little shrug, and there is a flippancy, a brittle skepticism. No, you wouldn't care, would you? She is defensive of her fragile shell, even if she is very bad at it. She looks down at her drink rather than looking at you, and slowly, reaches for it to pull it closer. "What about you? You seemed pretty depressed the last time we met - which was also the first time we met, I suppose. Are you happier now than you were? I hope so. You at least have a mission in life."

     "Then let's just say the drinks are on me," he croons, sitting back and lighting up a cigarette. "You are a little less... hmmm..." smoke curls from his nose like a ruminating dragon as he, well, ruminates. "Frenetic... than I recall. You bounced around a good deal more." Smoke sneaks past his cockeyed grin. "But the details are pretty fucking fuzzy. Me?"
     Bronze and copper eyebrows shoot upward as you describe him, and his mouth cuts a smirk. "The more things change, the more they stay the same, wot? Nah," Davydd rumbles long and low. "It's not all bad. But I'm a bit of a blue sort. Brooding by nature. It's genetic. I've had better weeks but... then ... so have nine-tenths of the world, dearie. And you, too, yeah?"
     Davydd takes a deep swallow of the Guinness, giving his body to the booth. He cuts a lazy, poetic figure -- if a bruising, mountainous one. He looks like he could give Dylan a run for his money. Either of them. "So wot's wot with you, then. And you look a bit queenie to me, with your lace and bits." He snorts and takes a pull of his cigarette. "Fairy chicks are overrated."

     She looks at you a bit cautiously; less than suspiciously, less than hopefully, but with an uncertainty that she never used to have, not on the surface. "Everything runs out of energy and time sooner or later, doesn't it? I guess that's where I am right now. I'm looking at a picture of myself and I can sort of see where things might be going, and it's not making me any too happy, really. 'Really' - I say that word too much. I guess I'm still trying to convince myself."
     She picks up her glass, brings it to her lips, swallows and sets it down again in a butterfly-ambling sort of maneuver. With a sigh, Audi looks up to the ceiling and then down at her hands. "I try not to brood," she admits frankly. "I try not to think about things. But it's come right down to the end, for me. I don't know what to do. Ignoring it and waiting isn't working. What's with me? Well, that's just it, isn't it? Nothing."
     Audi folds her hands again, at the very edge of the table, looking to you with that almost primness. "Nothing's changed. I still can't keep a job for longer than a handful of weeks. I still can't figure out why. I still can't sell myself as an artist, and I still don't know why I ... do what I do, every night, when I come to a sudden stop. And I still always start again in the morning. And I've reached the end of my tether." Her mouth wobbles, turning downwards at the edges, and she looks down at her glass with that dip of her chin that sends her hair tumbling in front of her face. "It's just hard - being alone all the time. Being afraid all the time. I've run out of optimism and sunshiny yellow in my box of crayons. That's all there is to it."

     He's such a soft touch. Stray animals, helpless women. He's a Welsh marshmallow. He can feel it in himself. The same thing that led him to pick up a punk girl on the sidewalk and change the course of his life irrevocably makes his green eyes squint in sympathy and his body to roll forward, his arms resting on the table.
     "Still turning into a pumpkin at midnight, cinderella," he rumbles lowly. He gives you the once over. Sitting back with a hefty exhale, Davydd frowns. I've got a fucking complex. "Well, who says you have to be alone? You're sitting here with me, yeah? I know your story, yeah? And I haven't gone off screamin' you're starkers."
     His mouth starts to cut a smile and he tilts his head to catch your gaze as you dip your chin and try to hide your face with all that hair. "I know a little something about self-appointed exile," Davydd murrs. "It doesn't work. The world finds y' anyway. Friends?" He offers you his large hand to shake on it.

     Why do you pick up strays? She is more stray animal than she is helpless woman in many ways; and aware of it in herself. The world of herself is one easily and readily populated by talking animals and invisibility cloaks. It's a world turned sideways, as she'd say, that's all. "Something like that," Audi agrees, lifting both hands to scrub at her face before she pushes her hair back. "It'd be easier if I - if I knew who to talk to, or if I knew I had to fight someone, or ... or anything. But as it is, I've just gone on in my own furrow, plowing away deeper and getting nowhere. That's the problem with ruts. It's awfully hard to climb out, especially I suppose when your legs are as short as mine."
     She looks up at you, lower lip sticking out as she considers what you've said very seriously. "Well, but everyone I tell goes away," Audi points out with childish simplicity. "I haven't told so very many people. I've taken a chance a few times, but ... in the end, they go away and I never see them again, usually. Not just you, but you're the first one I've run into again. I don't know. Maybe it's just part of my curse. If it /is/ a curse - I don't know if I believe in curses or not, but it's as close to making logical sense as anything, isn't it? Not that I've ever believed in logic enough to place an order for any at the store. But if it is a curse, I'd like to find a way to break it, please."
     As simple as that. She looks at your hand, so much larger than her own, and she frowns a little, tilting her head sideways - less as if suspicious, more as if trying to do sums in her head. "Well, of course I'm willing to be friends. But I'm an awfully inconvenient sort of friend. Are you sure?"

     "I'm the most inconvenient man I've ever met," he rattles out, giving your hand a shake. "Who better? And, yeah, I'm sure," he nods as he says it. Here I am, reaching out to the lost, to those who can't find their way. Look for the creatures moving through the brush, pushing through the brambles and getting caught. Those are the ones who need you. That's why you're still here.
     "Come on, let's go where we can talk. And where the drinks are better. And cheaper," Davydd smirks. He stamps out his cigarettes, stowing the pack and lighter back in his jacket. He's going to finish the Guinness, mind you. Waste not, want not.
     "My place isn't that far," he notes quietly. "And, no, this isn't a come on." Davydd pauses and a smile explodes across his features like a comet taking off. "Even though I did say 'come on'. You need to take a load off. And a friend in need is a friend indeed, right?"
     His large hand pats your hand rather than shakes it, and gives your arm a little reassuring nudge. "We can catch up. And maybe after all this time, I'll even have something worthwhile to say..."

     "I didn't think you were coming on to me," Audi tells you seriously, looking up at her hand swallowed by your larger one. "I mean, why would you?" She is not being coy; she is not being obtuse. She genuinely doesn't think in those terms. She takes the plastic swizzle stick on which the cherries have been skewered from her drink - the best part - and moves to rise to her feet. Like lambs to the slaughter they will be led for the fleecing, right?
     "I'm happy to listen if you have anything to say," Audi tells you, shaking her hair again back from her face. "I just - well, I don't want to be all mopey and depressed. I'm tired of trying to pretend nothing's wrong, though." There's frustration in her voice and tears in her eyes and she has to look away. "If it were only as simple as it is in the stories... but either my fairy godmother got busy at happy hour, or the wicked witch hasn't come back to finish the job. I just have this constant feeling of wanting to go 'home', but where's home, anyway? Just an antiquated concept left over from a previous century and isn't all it's cracked up to be, anyway! And listen to me. I'm perilously in danger of being mistaken for a goth. Anyway, let's go to your place before I embarrass myself - and you - further."

     The Guinness is downed, finished and with a great breath of satisfaction, not unlike a dragon who's just swallowed a village worth of virgins, Davydd rises. "None of the fairy tales had happy endings," Davydd rumbles thoughtfully. "But that's no reason to cry in the porridge, I agree."
     He leads out out of the pub and onto the sidewalk, heading on foot from The Strand toward the South Waterfront. The drizzle is light but omnipresent, creating halos of incandescent fog around the street lights and traffic lights. "I know the feeling," he says suddenly, quietly. "Lookin' for a place, lookin' for meaning, tired of runnin'." Davydd glances over to you. His normal marching stride is slowed in consideration for your shorter steps. He doesn't want to make you jog. "Some meaning, belonging, companionship. I've known a few cursed beings, in fact, I consider myself one of them. But Solitude and Exile... are curses of another sort. There's camaraderie out there to be found. And sure, you've not been lucky. But," he looks to you again, "... all luck changes at some point. Bad to good, good to bad."
     His hands go in his pockets as he leads you toward the Waterloo Bridge. In the distance, the ferris wheel, sparkling as it makes its literal and metaphysical circuit. Around and around and around we go. "You're not the sort who should be mopey and depressed," he cuts a look and a smile to you. "It just doesn't suit you. You're more a 'glow little glow-worm, glimmer glimmer' girl. So... why don't you then? Glimmer. You're going to die anyway, you might as well shine along the way."

     Her footsteps are definitely shorter than yours, though she walks quickly, almost skips in an effort not to hold you back. "Do you think luck changes?" Audi asks curiously. "I don't know. I suppose it does. And, well, I look at myself and I know it could be lots worse than it has been. I'm not starving. People don't hate me on sight. I'm not ugly - in fact, I'm rather pretty, except for being easily mistaken for a ten year old." She pulls a face, wrinkling her nose. "I usually have a roof over my head - there was one scary period when I couldn't find another job for so long, I thought I'd lose my flat, but I pawned a vintage jacket and made just enough to keep the wolf away from the door til I found a job at a chip stand. The jacket was gone when I went back for it, but ... it's only things, right?"
     She is trying very hard to believe her own words. "I suppose it's just harder when you live side by side with affluence - not even real wealth, the sort where there's furs and jewels and private jets, but just the sort where everything's orderly and stable and you know there's always the money for a hot breakfast, even if not the time, and you know you'll be able to pay the rent, and you don't have to choose between a bottle of wine or dinner for the next few nights. And most times I don't mind it - I make a game of it, to help me not mind it. I know enough not to think I'm really Cinderella, because really, what's the point of princes? What self-respecting prince is going to look in gutters for a girlfriend? What self-respecting scullery-maid's going to take a tabloid-maker - or let a man, or a fairy godmother, take over her life and mindlessly do the puppet thing all the way to the ball and back? But sometimes - like right now - it takes an awful lot of work to convince myself of it," she concludes with a sigh. "Because it would be awfully nice to trade up, and if one's trading away anything, it does make sense to try to go all the way - for the furs and the Caribbean cruises, not just three hot meals a day."
     She follows you, though without looking at you - why look at you, when the ferris wheel is so interesting, so bright? A smile appears despite her conversation. "It's pretty. I love fairs - and candyfloss, and fairy cakes, and candy apples, and hot cider, and the booth games. Knock down the bottles! Or the targets. Or toss pennies for goldfish. It's great fun. I haven't been to one in years and years and years." One hand comes up, again impatiently pushing her hair from her face as she cuts another glance at you, making a face again. "I try to. But ... it's harder, time goes on. It feels hopeless. Isn't that why people turn to religion? Because they gain the hope that things will get better - if not now, then after they die. Except in my case, I know what happens after I die. Who knows? Maybe I was really, really bad in a past life... and this is my hell. If so, maybe I should wallow. But there's always just enough things," Audi explains, "that I can't help enjoying myself... except the bubble keeps bursting. I'm just not quite small enough for it to support my weight."

     He chuckles and the laugh is true, and when he laughs there's something glossy about him, something that makes him real and unreal all at once. It has an earthy quality but a dancing one -- like the sound that water makes tripping over stones. The same lilt of his speaking voice, only grander. Hands shoved into his coat pockets, skin pinkening for the autumn crisp in the air, he quickens his pace only slightly. You seem to be keeping up well enough.
     "I like fairs too. That's why I live on Gabriel's Wharf, right in the middle of it all. And you're right. Surviving is one thing. Thriving is another. I survived for most of my life. I'm only now starting to really sort out the thriving thing. Course... I haven't had to worry as much on the money end of things for a while. But I remember lean and cold winters," he looks to you. "Gettin' by on next to nothing. So, I understand where you're comin' from."
     Beneath you, The Thames. The breeze picks up a bit, as it always does, when crossing the river. He looks at you to make sure you're alright, not blowing off the bridge, tiny thing that you are. "You don't look ten," Davydd smirks. "I might not put you over twenty, but you're definitely not ten. Besides, didn't anyone ever tell you that wee women were the loveliest?"
     Twisting slightly, looking to you now and then as he heads toward the other side of the bridge and to the stairs that lead downward to the riverside, Davydd wonders, "So what do you think you could do to improve your situation? You don't turn into a pumpkin until midnight, right? What's keeping you where you are, financially, emotionally?"

     She looks at you sidelong, as if thinking about you rather hard. "You're lots older than me of course," Audi says candidly, "so you've had loads more experience. I moved out of my mum's when I was sixteen; I think we were both relieved. It was strange, though. I moved out and it was as if, for her, for all my brothers and sisters, as if I just ... didn't exist, anymore." She looks a bit sad, gaze turned down for a moment. "Not as if they didn't like me anymore, but because I wasn't right there in the house with them anymore, wasn't a part of their daily lives... I guess that's just how it is sometimes."
     Audi shrugs, letting the regret of it slip away from her like corn silk through fingers as she turns to look at the river, shivering a little and pressing down on her skirts with the flat of her palm. "No, nobody's ever told me that. I'm just going on twenty-one this spring, though. I guess there's still time for plenty of things, right?"
     She follows you to the stairs, one hand still keeping her skirts down even as her hair is blown in every direction. Better the modesty, apparently. "I don't know," Audi frowns at you through the tangle, "but then, I don't know why I have so much trouble keeping a job. It'd be easier, I'm sure, if I could keep a job; it's easier to be stable then, right? I know I work well. I've a string of good references more than half as long as the list of jobs I've had. But things just always seem to happen to keep me from settling in at any one place. I've just left another florist's job; the woman who owns it is getting married and moving to Majorca, so she's selling the shop. So she didn't need me anymore. She was perfectly nice about it, but there you go."

     "Ever work in a pub?" His hand comes out quite naturally to help guide you down the stairs. It is an automatic motion, an automatic courtesy. "I think we can sort out the job thing pretty easily. You don't have to waitress if you don't want. You could help tend bar. You could help work in the office. Flexible hours -- whichever ones are best for your situation. So... that problem can be easily solved, yes? How's that for changing your luck? And yes... luck can change. It does change. You know, o fortuna, velut luna," how often does one get to quote the Carmina Burana? "Oh fortune, like the moon."
     The South Waterfront is humming with activity from Waterloo to Gabriel's Wharf and beyond. The cooler weather hasn't dampened the spirits in the slightest; if anything, it's encouraged it. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he says, leaning down as if to keep the information just between the two of you. "I own damn near every traditional pub in town. Black Jack Davy's, the Snake and Weasel, the Rose and Thistle," he waves his hand: and so on, and so on, and so on.
     "And you're right, I'm fucking ancient. Well then, the old man can still count," Davydd rumbles with a grin. "I was only one off. Not bad, yeah?" He doesn't lead you to the ferris wheel and the constant carnival that the South Waterfront represents. Instead, he leads you toward a posh looking building. "This is it," he notes. "So... when do you usually knock off? I think maybe I should go with you this time. See where you go, see what happens. Do you mind?" He holds the glass door open for you, leading into the ultra mod lobby.
     "Evening, Mr. Llywelyn," the doorman/guard inside says.
     "Evenin', John," he says to the older, very English looking man. But that's all the conversation there is. He heads to the set of elevators with you in tow in his wake.

     "I've tried waitressing, but I'm clumsy. I've gotten better! I've practiced," she explains, not quite defensively, "and that's helped by the heels. When you walk with stilts strapped to your feet for any length of time, everything gets easier when the stilts come off." She gives you a troubled look. Will you believe her? She doesn't expect so.
     She blinks at you as you explain your vast and hidden wealth - to a girl like her, fifty pounds is untold wealth that will keep her fed for almost a month or possibly longer. "...You must be very rich," Audi murmurs awkwardly. "I hope I didn't say anything wrong. I don't really know how to behave around rich people, you know."
     She follows behind you, not quite awed but certainly suddenly feeling out of place. "Where I go? Usually I just go home, you know. I try not to stay out late, so as not to have it happen in public. It'd be very hard to explain to the paramedics - oh, well, yes, I was dead, but I, well, got better?" You hold the door open, and she falls quiet at that; no talking about miracles in front of the uninitiated.
     She's fallen utterly silent now, meek and small as she looks around the interior of the building. Your closet is probably bigger than her entire flat. You can see the thought crossing her face without needing to be expressed. She follows you to the elevators, prodding her hair and attempting to get it in some semblance of order rather absentmindedly. But she doesn't say anything until the elevator has opened and the metal doors slid shut again. "I know you aren't a Satanist looking for a virgin to sacrifice," Audi tells you seriously, "but ... I'm wondering why you're being so nice. Especially since you've made it plain that you're not doing it in order to sleep with me."

     He holds the elevator doors open for you, allowing you to enter ahead of him. Davydd chuckles, his grin lingering after the sound has dissipated. "I know, that makes me immediately suspicious." He cackles and grins as he punches the 5th floor button. "You don't know me well enough to know how I seduce women, but being nice isn't one of the ways. I'm usually a total git, but somehow endearing." He rolls his eyes as he fishes out a cigarette and his lighter. He doesn't light up in the elevator. He waits until the doors open for that, body blocking the doors to keep them open for you. "It's to the right, 501," he says, cigarette jiggling as he speaks, pausing to light it.
     Keys come out and he laughs again, amused as hell. "No, you didn't say anything wrong. No need to be self conscious. Do I look like I hold out my pinky when I drink my tea, love?" He laughs smoke as he opens the door to his flat.
     It's very masculine, very modern, very spacious. And he has a view. The drapes are open, showing the glittering Gabriel's Wharf area outside and the view of the moon over The Thames. "Make yourself at home. What would you like to drink? Beer, whisky, coffee? And I'm being nice because... I can be," he shrugs, keys back in his pocket. "It's that simple. Besides... that's what friends do, right? Help when help is needed. You need a gig. I have gigs to give. You need a shoulder to lean on, and I have a couple to spare."
     He makes no bigger issue of it than it is. To him, it's simple really. "So... you drop dead about what time? Or does it change? I can't remember if you've said. Me? I drop dead come sunrise," he looks at the label on a bottle, puts it down, and looks at another. Deciding on Irish, he uncaps it and pours a triple. "Not all curses are equal."

     She moves obediently to the right, following your directions. Even if you turn out to be a wolf in disguise... "You look more like a woodsman," Audi says aloud. And she isn't wearing red. She heads in as you open doors, hold doors for her, with a murmur of thanks for the courtesy, and she looks around. "Coffee, please. But not too strong. I'm not used to it."
     You seem always behind her, and she turns to look at you over her shoulder, hands gathered together in front of her, fingers interlaced. "Around midnight, always around midnight. It doesn't seem to be according to atomic time as far as I can tell; and it's hard for me to set a clock for it, to mark exactly when, since - well, I'm dead, then. ...You die at sun-up?" Audi looks noticeably surprised. "I've never met anyone else who dies before."

     Dark green eyes flit their attention over to you as he sets down the bottle of whisky. He takes a quick swallow of it, and sets it aside. "The Woodsman's a pretty apt description," his voice rolls out. It has a kind of purr to it, if dragons of course can purr. "Coffee it is, then."
     Whistling, Davydd heads into his kitchen -- kitchen dining and living room are all open areas together -- and he starts the process of fulfilling your request. "Do you remember anything about it when you wake? Or is it like... starting over from scratch?" He looks over to you. "And... I'm not surprised. Though, you might be to know just how many people share a similar affliction. But then again," he smirks, "...how many people really take the opportunity to live? I suppose we're all the walking dead."
     The coffee is done quickly, nudged along with a little magic, and he's pouring a cup. "Sugar? I think I have some cream in the fridge. You're welcome to whatever. So... do you wake about the same time? How long do you think it lasts, or does it vary?" He's curious. That's clearly noted on his face as he carries the cup to you. "I'm not just asking you as a future employer," Davydd grins suddenly, the comet streaking again.

     "Sugar and cream, please," she calls, suddenly cheered - as much by your responsiveness to her non sequitur as by the coffee itself. "I'm not really Little Red Riding Hood, though I suppose there's a little bit of me in it. I'm sort of Sleeping Beauty crossed with Cinderella and the Little Match Girl, I'd guess. And mostly, just me."
     She plops herself into a seat, curling up cozily and spreading her skirts as she watches you carry the cup. "When I stay awake? I usually sort of just - pass out, and I wake, fifteen or thirty minutes later. It's never very clear when I wake up, but it feels always as if I've been trying to get into a very busy restaurant; I've been waiting at the bar for my table to be ready, but it never really quite is. That's just the impression I get, though. I really don't know why, or where it is that I go, if I go anywhere. Usually these days I just try to be in bed before it happens, and asleep. That way I don't fall down and hit my head or anything like that; because if I do, well, the injuries don't just go away. It'll still hurt, even if I was dead before."
     She props both hands under her chin, looking up at you, half-hopefully. "I don't know exactly how long it lasts, but ... not long, not by the clock, anyway. Funny thing," Audi muses, "it always feels longer than it actually is. I mean, I feel sometimes as if I've been out for hours or even days. But it's never more than an hour at most."

     His mouth cuts another amused smirk. What is it with me and girls with a Little Red Riding Hood complex? He hands you the cup and as he listens to you he heads back into the kitchen to fetch the sugar from the counter and the cream from the refrigerator. He wanders back over to you, depositing both on the small table before heading to the other sofa, his whisky and his cigarette.
     "Hmmm," he sucks smoke and fire as he thinks on that for a moment, exhaling his consideration. "Interesting. It sounds sort of like a disorder. Like narcolepsy." Sitting forward, he flicks ash into the glass ashtray on the coffee table. "And ... refresh my memory... how long has this been going on?"
     He is thinking, filing away what you say, hearing you, giving you due consideration. It doesn't last long, but it seems like there's unfinished business of some kind or another.

     "For as long as I can remember," Audi tells you seriously. It is one of the shorter statements you have received from her. "I suppose since I was born, but I don't know. I'd ask my father, but to tell the truth, I have no way in the world of knowing who he is ... not for certain. Our mum means well, but..."
     She reddens, looking down again. It is embarrassing to admit that your mother's, well, a bit loose. "I suppose it could be a disorder, but - well, how does one come back from the dead, without god being involved? And I don't go to church, so why would a god care enough to do so? I'm not important; I'm out of the way and people don't really notice me. The world's too big for that, and I only just about fit into a teacup." She lifts the cup to her lips, sipping it, setting it down again. "Thank you for the coffee, though."
     She has no answers. In the past, she was content to leave things as they've been and not seek answers; and now? Now that has changed. Audi looks up at you quizzically, through her blue eye and her green eye. "It just doesn't make any /sense/. I've tried to avoid telling people so as not to become a curiosity - and, well, I die every night. Maybe that means if I died in some horrible accident, I'd come back to life too - but I don't know. And I don't want to find out. Especially since whenever I do have an injury it doesn't go away - I've thought about what it'd be like, if someone shot me, or cut me open. What if I came back to life then?" She shudders without artistry, a genuine revulsion. "I don't like to think about it. But what can I do? You look as though I've said something odd - well, and I suppose I have, but what are you thinking? I'm ... guessing this isn't much like what happens to you...?"

     "I've never met the Almighty," he notes with a shake of his head, his eyes lifting to you. "Never had the pleasure," he continues as he sits back. The whisky is balanced on his woolen thigh, his cigarette between his lips. "But ... no... that's not how it is for me. Mine affliction is utterly predictable. It functions differently. Less a disorder... more... magical in nature." An eyebrow lifts to remark how you react to that. "Not odd, well," he grins, "...no more odd than what I just said anyway. I'm just... wondering how it works... why it happens. You know, all that cosmic rot."
     Sitting forward, he stamps out the cigarette. He doesn't immediately light another, but takes a swallow of the whisky. He sets the empty glass on the coffee table. "There's some real shite in the universe, Audi. Not just you and me. And ... yeah... there's a god behind it all. At least one," he grins. "I'm going to try to help you," Davydd announces to you. "Not sure how, but we'll take care of the simple shite first, right? First things first, the job situation. Consider it done. Tomorrow, I want you to go to Black Jack Davy's and speak to a fellow by the name of Llew. He'll put you to work. You want an office gig? You handy with numbers, want to help with the ordering? Name it, and it'll happen. As for tonight? I want you to stay here... I want to see it happen with my own eyes."

     The use of the word 'magic' does not raise alarms nor ring bells. She dies every night; magic is not commonplace, perhaps, but the theory of it is not unspeculated upon. And, after all, it could be hyperbole. "Predictability helps. I have at least a general idea - if I couldn't control when it happened or where, I'd be in a much worse state. As it is, though, I can't help but feel like I'm going to end up one of those crazy old cat ladies."
     Audi smiles ruefully as she says it, but there is seriousness beneath the smile. The risk is there, surely. "Black Jack Davy's? Um. All right... I'm all right with numbers. I'd be willing to learn to tend bar, but I don't really know how to mix drinks right now, so I'd need to learn it. Are you sure?" She looks at you worriedly, eyes filled with concern - not for herself, but for you. "I don't want you to have regrets, that's all."
     As for staying here... she blinks again, at that. "Well. Um. What time is it now?"

     He's not sure, actually. He has to look at his watch. "Almost ten," he notes. "We've a while yet. Just as well." His mouth cuts a slant. "I don't usually watch girls die on my sofa after only one scotch. Anything else, coffee holding out alright? And, yeah, I'm sure. You need to get the survival issue handled, yeah? Maybe if you survived in your waking hours a little more efficiently, you won't have the need to actually kick the bucket. I wonder about the metaphor... waiting for a seat in a restaurant," Davydd continues as he stands, heading for the bar. "I wonder what you're really waiting for...perhaps the dying is just a symptom or some sort."
     It's an interesting puzzle, your issue. And maybe it's magic, maybe it's not, but one thing it is for sure is intriguing. Davydd pours another triple whisky. "There's plenty of coffee if you want another cuppa." He chuckles suddenly at the image of you as a crazy cat lady. "I don't want to read about you in the Times," he cracks, glancing over to you with a wink. "As for Davy's... training's not a problem. I just want you to have a sure gig, yeah? Something, at least one thing you can count on. I think once you have that, the other things become easier, at least more bearable."
     He comes back over, sitting across from you again. He removes the coat, tossing it aside. The sweater's enough inside. "Let's get back to the waiting thing.... what gives you that feeling of waiting in a bar. What do you think you're waiting for, particularly? Some thing? Some one?"

     "What do you put in your scotch that they die?" Audi's eyebrows both raise, and she has to suppress a laugh of merriment. It fades into a sigh that is not without its regrets. "Coffee's fine, thank you. You have a very nice place, by the way."
     Efficiency. "I've never thought of survival as being something to be handled efficiently or otherwise," she remarks thoughtfully, looking down into her cup, held in both hands. "I suppose I do see your point. It's tiring, being always so grovelingly poor. I've often thought I wouldn't mind it, if only the basics were taken care of. One can get by with a Council flat, even with the roof leaking, if there's just enough food to eat and not the worrying thought of will there be food tomorrow, and the day after. I've had to fight the urge to - to stockpile things, sometimes. Clothes especially. I suppose in that sense, the poverty's a blessing in disguise. When you've got to pawn things every other month, you don't have much chance to build up great piles of stuff."
     It is all said in a conversational tone, without self-pity or anything other than the apparent desire to share her thoughts as they come into her head. You ask your questions, though, and she changes tacks, looking up again with those mismatched eyes. "Well, a table, mostly. It isn't even just a feeling hungry, though there's that too," Audi explains candidly. "But it's a feeling as if I'm waiting just to get in the door. I'm not A-list enough to get in ahead of everyone else, after all. I'm not even B-list. If I'm noticed, it's only just barely - so I wait in the corner for an open spot. To be let in, given admission. Who knows? Maybe heaven's just full right now, so they don't have room for me."

     He'll let you pour your second rounds. There's a nod for the coffee as he considers what you say. "Interesting notion, that. I wonder." He sips at the scotch, giving his great body to the sofa to hold. The leather squeaks at the weight. "I wonder what you're trying to get from there. Wherever there is." He looks at you. And for the first time he seems to be really looking at you, almost into you. Davydd sits there, staring, and for a time he says nothing. He takes a swallow of the scotch.
     "I've a proposition for you, Audi. What if I said I had a bit of a... short cut to the restaurant. A sort of VIP entrance, if you will. Would you be willing to trust me? I'm just curious to see whether if you're guided, we can sort out what you need. Clearly, there's something over there, wherever there is, that you're trying to get..."
     Davydd sits forward grinning and depositing the glass on the table. "Now, you're probably wondering: how the hell are we going to do that? Well, I can't tell you how but I can tell you it won't hurt. So... feel like an adventure? Fuck waiting around till midnight, cinderella. Let's storm the castle and see it for ourselves..."

     She listens to you, looks at you, her head tilted to the side. "By anything anybody 'normal' in this world says, I'm an impossible thing that shouldn't exist," Audi points out, without a hint of resentment. "You say you die every day. I die every night. You seem to know more than I do. If you say you know how to get into the restaurant - since I don't even actually know where the restaurant is, or if there even is a restaurant at all - who am I to say 'oh, no, you're joking, you're mad'? I just ... I'm at the point where I can't go on the way I've been."
     She looks away, one fat tear rolling down her cheek, her hand coming up a little too late to stop it. She wipes it away absently and then leans forward to set her coffee away from her. "I don't know where this place is, but it isn't as if my going there will inconvenience anyone except possibly my landlord, who'll swear if I miss next month's rent, is all. So why not?"
     Audi stands up; even standing, she is far too short, and she looks at you with uncertainty. "Should I do anything first? Brush my hair? Polish my teeth? Wear sensible shoes?"

     "Nah, as long as you're comfortable," Davydd rumbles. He finishes the scotch and stands with a whiskeyed exhalation. It takes a stride and a half for him to stand beside you. Next to you, he's like a mountain. And for the second time in a night, he offers you his hand.
     "All you need to do is close your eyes. You don't even have to chant anything, like Dorothy trying to get back to Kansas," he grins. Your hand in his, he gives you a slight squeeze. "Though you might get a bit dizzy. Don't worry. I won't let go."
     One hand, two hand, three hand, four. All ten of your tiny digits are held in his much larger hands. And there is the feeling of motion, like vertigo -- like the world is tilting a little on its axis. There is some sudden sweet quality to the air. The scent of rich wood, and moss, and flowers.
     "Open your eyes and get your bearings," Davydd whispers, his arms holding you gently. When you do, you'll find yourself standing with him in the clearing of a wild wood. Overhead, there are streaks of stars and stardust, gleaming as they never do in London, or anywhere on earth. He is clothed as he was; he appears unchanged. But for the feeling of power that is everywhere around him. Like this earth, wherever it is, is merely an extension of Himself.
     "Welcome to the Otherworld," Davydd speaks quietly. His dark eyes, though still slightly greenish in the darkness, seem backed by a silvery light. Moonlight, starlight loves him. And he goes from being brutish to strangely beautiful.

     She is willing to trust you; more willing to trust you than your wife was, some years back, on first meetings. Or second meetings, either. In her there is the curious resignation of those to whom life has not been kind. She has not been soured by it, yet, but it leaves her ready to place herself - literally - in your hands. Her small hands are placed in yours, and obediently her eyes are closed; tightly, as if the temptation to peek might otherwise be too great.
     She doesn't open her eyes right away. She wrinkles her nose at the strangeness, the shift. Like a blind person, she lets her other senses have first crack at things, listening to the faint wind. "The light's changed," Audi observes. "Even when your eyes're closed, you can tell things like that."
     She opens her eyes, moving to pull her hands free of yours as she turns. There is a little gasp, her shoulders lifting in a surprised shrug as she looks around. "...Is this Narnia?"

     Davydd snorts. "Fucking Narnia. No, not here. Though there's this queen I romance from time to time," when she's not too busy fucking my son, "... and her place is much more Narnia-like. Centaurs and fairies and shite. Over that way," he points, letting loose one of your hands, "...is Avalon. Heard of that place? That was mine too, though now it's my son's. I was High King there for a while, but all things must pass, yeah? Besides, the real work's back in the Other-Other-World."
     You pull your hands free, and he starts to head from the clearing and into the wood. "Time passes quickly here. We could spend years here, and only lose a day or two London-time. How do you feel? Queasy at all?" He glances up at the stars and the moon. "It's the equivalent of eleven o'clock. It's roughly the eleventh hour since the sun's highest station. So... now that you're here...we'll see if you die and head back to London. That'd be a pip."
     Or maybe you won't die. Maybe you're simply where you need to be. You only needed a guide to get here. He has no idea. That's what the experiment is for, right?
     He leads you through the forest, this magical glade of ancient oaks and thorns, along a winding path cut by the hooves of deer. Silver waters run sweet and clear, from stream to brook to cascade.
     "This place... doesn't really have a name. It's the Holly King's forest. Some call it the Perilous Wood, the Forest Savage. But it won't bite. It looks wilder than it is." He flashes a grin to you and cackles. "It's all bark, no bite!"
     Oh, he kills himself...
     "You know... there's another way to go about this whole thing," his voice lowers back to a hush. "If you like it here... you could choose to stay. There are more than a few who've found a place here, the shelter they need, the chance they were looking for..."

     It's all a bit much to absorb. She looks at you with wide, mismatched eyes, then looks around herself again. Fairies. Centaurs. Kingdoms. It's one thing when it's all in her head. Something else when things come out of her head and off the drawing paper into the real world.
     Or herself, off the drawing paper, maybe. Who knows?
     "This is very strange, you know," Audi informs you, all too seriously. "Anyway, I'm a London girl. I wouldn't begin to know how to live here, in the middle of a wood. They threw me out of the Girl Guides, even." But she is following you; hell, she's staying closer than close. If you wore skirts, she'd be clinging to them. There might be wolves. Or worse.
     "I - I don't know about that." The idea panics her a little, as if you might abandon her here, the way some people do stray cats and dogs. Small arms fold tightly over her chest, and she goes on looking around worriedly. "I'd need to learn how to take care of myself better. I wouldn't want another string of a thousand useless jobs. Even if it's working for fairies, that'd not be a good step up. And ... well ... I don't want to get ahead of myself too much."

     "Just tossing out ideas," he quips. Feeling you wanting to cling, Davydd reaches back and offers you his hand again. "We're almost there." Where, he does not say. His fingers close around your own. His hand is warm and strong. Ahead, the path widens, and you see a structure made of rough hewn grey stone. It is a small castle, a hunting lodge more like, little more than a tower.
     "It is strange, I grant you. But then, what isn't?" Davydd notes, his words hanging out in mist for seconds after he speaks. "Still, once you cross over, it stays with you. Maybe next time when you die, should you die, you'll be able to have a seat at the table, yeah?"
     He stops shy of the door, turning to you. "I'm not going to run off," he grins. "Don't worry. I'm an oddity but I'm not an asshole." Much. "Let's take a load off before heading any further," he murmurs, his fingers still folding your own in his grasp.
     He leads you with him, opening the door. What appeared to be little more than a tower, and an ancient one at that, opens a portal to a vibrant city. To the east, the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree in all its grandeur. To the west, Avalon. In between here and Avalon is Camelot, flourishing here as it never got the chance to do on earth. Here, the best parts of that dream have taken root and taken hold.
     Ahead, the grand pavilions of the greatest knights of legend and lore. And among them, a tent fit for a king. In velvets of red and gold it glitters in the torchlight, its tall and broad expanse promising riches and warmth.
     Warmth would be good, for the weather is turning chilly. "How about something warm to drink. We'll sit and visit and see if... anything happens. And if so... what." He leads you to the tent, holding open the flap like a proper gentleman.
     The interior of the tent is not a disappointment. The floor of the tent is velvet covered over in furs and carpets. Hanging lamps of colored glass sparkle here and there like low-hanging stars and magical moons, smelling of amber and honeysuckle. There are large cushions, sofas of red and gold swirled velvet and decanters and goblets of ruby and gold.
     A thick curtain separates the broad expanse of the entry and living quarters to a more private chambers...

     When one finds oneself in foreign climes, a native guide is indispensable. And you are that native guide. She is not terribly timid, but there is a little timidity going on; it is all very strange and new. And she is very unsure of her place in this strangeness, this novel world to which you've introduced her.
     And there is so much to look at. "I wish I'd brought my notebook," Audi murmurs, as if unaware of having spoken. "Or at least a camera. Though I suppose a camera probably wouldn't work, would it? I suppose I'm not a very good artist, or I'd have been able to make money at it. But this looks rather like the sorts of things I draw."
     Warmth - warmth is good, yes. She wholeheartedly agrees with you on that, ducking ahead of you with one last glance around before she ducks into the lifted flap, past it into the tent. And her eyes go wider and wider yet. "What are you doing /there/ when you have all of this here?" Audi asks you curiously. "Though I suppose there's things in London we've got that you haven't here. Still, I'm not quite sure what. You can't care that much about BBC, can you?"

     "I was born there. And there's work to do there," Davydd answers easily. He takes up a steaming golden decanter and pours two goblets full of a spiced and fragrant wine. Cinnamon and clove fills the air, and the confines of this room are very comfortable. A brassiere with burning coals serves to heat the chamber. "Here, it's fantasy. But the real world needs help, yeah? Wouldn't you say?" He hands you a cup of the wine and gestures for you to take a seat anywhere. "Make yourself comfortable. Feel free to kick off your boots and relax."
     "It's tempting, believe me," Davydd notes, taking a seat on the red and gold sofa. "When it's raining in London and it's all doom and gloom, trust that I'm thinking the same thing." He chuckles a little, "...but you know... they need a little magic there. They need a little hope there. Wouldn't you say? Besides, if I stayed here, how would I have run into you long enough to help you? To friends," Davydd says, lifting his cup in toast.
     He takes a good swallow, a sound of pleasure and enjoyment rattling in his throat and chest. "Hungry?" He makes a wave of his hand, and suddenly there is food. Really good food. Biscuits and honey, savory meats and buttered beans. And sweets and treats galore. "I'm feeling a bit peckish, myself."

     She accepts the goblet, sniffing its contents carefully before she takes a sip, curling up carefully. It is as if she is dining with a foreign plenipotentiary. In some ways, she is. "I can see your point," Audi allows, "and not just because of me needing help. I mean ... in some ways, I feel almost as if it's selfish, asking for help. I'm still alive, after all. I haven't starved to death. Rats don't run over my face when I go to sleep. It could be so much worse, that I don't know that I should ask for help at all."
     It is making her awkward and uneasy, and she blinks, looking down at her drink, then blinks again as the food 'arrives', distracting her from herself. "It seems to me like you need help more than I do," Audi murmurs, looking over at the biscuits. "I mean - I don't mean it the way it sounds, really! But ... if you're trying to bring magic to people. I mean, not like me, obviously. In my case it's more like you've brought me to the magic, not the other way round. There's an awful lot of people in London alone, though - and an awful lot of people alone in London."

     "It's definitely a job for more than one man... or woman," he notes. "I can only do my part. I'm not the only one, so there's that at least. But, oes, I'm no Superman. That's for certes," he gruffs, a wry smile tugging along after. "Maybe you can help me after I help you. Who knows. I'm open to the possibility. The real problem is, there's not a real plan. There can't be. You never know who's going to come along. Like you, for instance. I just have to be open, if that makes sense, to whomever the winds blow onto my doorstep."
     He takes another swallow of the draught, the warmth and spice and alcohol making his cheeks go pinkish. "But I'm thinking you and I, Audi, might be able to do one another a favor. I'm willing to see wot's wot. And what do we have to lose, anyway? Personally, I'd like to see your energy return to where it was -- well, maybe not so frenetic," he flashes a grin to you. "But that sense of adventure, of hope. It gets tiring, I know, struggling, trying to sort out your fate and all. I've been there. So, now I'm here," wherever here is. "I think tomorrow you'll feel a bit better. Good food, good wine, magic in the belly and in the heart. Ready to face whatever it is that keeps tugging you this way and that. In time, hopefully you'll understand the whys and wherefores. I'm curious, myself."

     "Well, if I can help... though I'm not sure what this will reveal," Audi remarks, snatching a biscuit as if half expecting it to vanish before she can take a bite from it. "I mean, if I don't die - what will that tell us? And if I do..."
     She is not convinced yet. Hopeful - but not convinced that this is the answer, this is the cure. She looks at the biscuit thoughtfully, then lifts it to her lips to take a little nibble. "Tell me about this place? I mean - what does all of this mean, anyway? I don't really quite know what to think of all of this."
     Her smile is there, but shy, and she looks down again. "I ... it makes me curious. I feel curious, too, though - as if something could happen. I just don't quite know what."

     "What does it mean?" Seems an odd question. His eyebrows arch upwards and he pauses to give it some thought. "I'm not sure it means anything on its own. Its meaning depends on ... your own perspective, what you're looking for, I reckon. It's the stuff of dreams. Here, it's the bread and butter for how all things are done. I suppose, if there's a meaning, a general meaning, it's that anything is possible." He smirks. "Sounds like trite shite to me. But," he shrugs and sips at the mulled wine. "...who'm'I to argue with it?"
     He's not convinced either, but it's worth a shot. "If you don't die, then we'll know that you don't die here. We'll at least know that it's a physical plane affliction. It's what they call process of elimination. We can concentrate on things there, right? And maybe figure out why or where you're trying to go. Course, if you die anyway," he smirks, "... it didn't tell us shite. But that's the nature of experiments, aye? You never know until you try."
     Davydd gives you the once and twice over. It's not lascivious or anything, but it is a man looking at you all the same. "What do you feel?" he wonders quietly, sipping at the wine again. "Is it familiar, this feeling? Like when you're at your flat, getting ready to not-quite-meet your Maker? It's coming on to midnight now," he notes.

     "Well, more - tell me about this place." Audi tries a different way of speaking, sitting up a little. "It's enormous. It's - I don't think the reality of it's really hit me just yet, you know? Here I am, sitting in a tent across from you and you're doing ... magic." She blinks and shakes her head. "Magic," she repeats. "Not - pulling coloured scarves out of your sleeve. Not fiddling with numbers or palming a coin from behind my ear, but really, really and truly, magic. And it's as if we've stepped into a picture-book, or one of my paintings. And I don't quite know how to wrap my mind around it, so I'm trying to the only way I know how, by learning what I can about it. You said centaurs and fairies. I - don't even know how to begin to ask about that. Are you a fairy?" She looks doubtful about that. "You look rather big and solid for a fairy, I hope you don't mind my saying."
     She takes another bite of biscuit, then brushes sticky crumbs from her fingers. "If I die, then we'll have narrowed things down, I suppose. If I don't die - well, I don't know what that will mean. It's not as if it happens just any time, anyway, only at midnight, and every night. I don't know what I think. I guess we need to see what happens."
     The goblet's lifted, looked into; then she looks to you again. "I feel sort of like I did as a little child, right before Christmas. You know - it builds up, and it builds and it builds, and you don't quite know what you'll get, but you hope it'll be something good. As if there's something crisp in the air, a wonderful surprise, at least, you hope it'll be wonderful. I don't know." Audi frowns a little, setting the goblet down, her expression a bit self-conscious under your renewed appraisal. It makes her cheeks pinker for it. "It's nothing like at home, no. At home, it just - it happens, is all. There's no real feeling to it. It just does; it's like losing consciousness."

     "I'm many things," he things to answer. "Not a fairy. I was once just a normal man. But that was a long time ago." He smiles a little, looking into the remainder of his wine. "I am no longer mortal, of course. I was chosen by a triplicate of fairy queens to be a champion." Davydd pauses, looking to you with a bit of a smirk. "It's a long and very involved and occasionally tragic story."
     "Care for more?" He motions to the wine goblet in your hand as he rises to fetch the golden decanter. "There are certain things i can do, other things I can't," he says, glancing to you as he pours another round of steaming spiced wine for himself. "I embody certain things, let's say, and those things move through me. Those are easily done for me. But there're plenty of things I can't do." Davydd grins suddenly. "I am Father Christmas. The Holly King. Mistletoe King on Yule. It's hard to explain. There are plenty of fairies of course. Anything that has ever existed in human imagination first existed here. We are literally in a dream world. On the outskirts of Heaven."
     What, the suburbs?

     "It sounds very complicated. Is it, really, or is it one of those things which only sounds complicated, like being born into a Jewish family and marrying a Catholic and there's a lot of classes and paperwork but in the end it works out, really?" Audi tilts her head as she asks you this, seeming entirely interested in your answers. "Though if it's tragic and long and involved, then it's probably as complicated as it sounds. Still, I'm sorry for that; it makes me seem positively down-home and simple."
     She shakes her head as you offer more wine. "Oh, thank you, but I've no tolerance at all. I've already had more alcohol than I ordinarily have in months and months and months, and I don't want to get drunk. Who knows how it'd skew things? I'm glad you haven't a long white beard; it wouldn't suit you at all. You look as if you should have a sword, though. So why is your son king here now instead of you?"
     And she moves on; questions occur as you speak, and she has to keep asking. "Are fairies nice, or are they like people back in London? And - Heaven? Is that why I keep dying?" Her eyes go large and round again. "Should I not be here?"

     Davydd barks a laugh. He can't even help himself. "If you only knew. It's actually a Celtic knot of eternal complication." Davydd rolls his eyes at himself, at his life, at his own tendency to overcomplicate things. "I won't bore you with the details," his voice grumbles out. Wine is sipped, wine is savored, and he takes a seat.
     "Not all fairies or creatures are nice, no. There is corruption even here. The universe has light and it has darkness, right? So... it is no different here. It isn't heaven proper, no," he explains in a lilt and a croon. "It's more like the wilderness before you get to heaven. As for whether you should be here or not? That is up to you and Destiny. It's not going to hurt you. In fact, it's after midnight, Cinderella. And while I've talked to the dead in my day, usually they nod off at some point. Care to return to London and see what happens there? I think this part of the experiment is done. It was mostly a curiosity on my part."
     The wine is warm, rich, and swallowed whole. Davydd sets his gold cup aside and groans as he rises. "Just as well, I'm starting to feel a bit tipsy. We don't want to end up in Bolivia. Oh, you asked a question... my apologies. My son? Well, I needed to concentrate on earthly matters. But someone needed to tend to all of the kingdoms here, beyond Avalon and Camelot and the rest. You've heard the phrase: on earth as it is in heaven? Something like that..."

     "I feel as if I need to catch a bus. I don't think the number twelve crosstown runs through here, though." She rises to her feet, smoothing down her skirts with a careful hand. "I don't know much about religion. I thought about it - I mean, I rather had to, didn't I? What with coming back from the dead. But I couldn't find anything which really meant much of anything to me. Not really. Nothing more than 'try to be nice to each other', which makes sense to me but which nobody seems really very able to do."
     Audi stops, turning to look at the tent flap thoughtfully. "So your son rules Avalon, and you rule London? The king under the city, in a way? You look more like a king here than you do there. Or, well - more like what people think kings look like, I suppose. If you look through history books and art galleries, heaven knows most actual kings and queens weren't all that handsome or heroic. I'm just a common brown sparrow, heaven knows. Or maybe heaven doesn't. I don't know. It's all very confusing, really."
     A bit absently, she moves towards the tent's entrance, a hand raised to lift it out of her way. "Back to London? All right. If I have a date with destiny, destiny can jolly well come and pick me up. I'm awfully tired, all of a sudden. I'm sorry if I'm not a very good guest. You have a lovely tent, though. Thank you for having me."

     The smile is tender. "I'm no king in London. I'm just a bloke...trying to help damsels in distress." His arms go theatrically wide. "It's a gift and a calling, what can I say." He throws back the flap of the tent, snorting. "You're welcome any time, Audi. Some night... if you're just wandering around the City being lost... just tell the alleys you want to see me, and you'll find your way."
     His large hand is covering yours as you and he step out of the tent...
     Out of the tent, and onto a London sidewalk, somewhere near, but not on, The Strand. "Remember what I said," he whispers, the glitter of the Otherworld faded from all but his eyes and some streak remaining when he smiles that comet smile, "...about Black Jack Davy's. Go there tomorrow and see Llew. Tell him I sent you, okay. Tell him when you can work and he'll get you scheduled and trained."
     An arm (a strong arm) comes around your shoulder as he guides you with him along the sidewalk. "Where do you live? I'm going to walk you ...or cab you home..."

     "I don't know about that." Her expression is serious, voice a bit distant. "I mean, one can be a king of almost anything in stories, can't one? The king of the cats. The king of the moon. Who's to say you're not king of vagabonds and strays, then? And really, one wouldn't expect a king of vagabond and strays to look like a Saville Row businessman, would one? Tell the alleys? I suppose I could."
     The idea has seized her curiosity, detached though she is. She tips her head to one side, turning to regard you with those mismatched eyes. "I'll go to the pub tomorrow," she agrees. "It'll be nice to have a job before the rent's due again, anyway. I'm down to my last couple of tins of sardines. Thank goodness for sales on day-old bread."
     She looks up and around as the fantastic surroundings resolve themselves back into being just drab and grey London. It is strange; there is something which puzzles her, and she shakes her head like a dog with an itch on its neck which it can't quite scratch. "Oh, I can get home on my own if you have other places to be! It's not hard to get to - it's a Council flat in north London. Holloway Road, five minutes from the Archway tube station. It even has its own shower. I count myself lucky, really," Audi tells you brightly. She glances over her shoulder with a puzzled frown. "It only leaks when it rains..."

     "The cab is on me," he insists. Arm around your shoulder, Davydd twists, his other arm raised. Two fingers find his mouth and a loud whistle pierces the air already crowded with the congestion of late evening noises. A black cab pulls over and Davydd opens the door for you.
     "Hey mate," he rattles off to the cabbie as he pulls out pound notes. "Take her wherever she wants

Posted by rowan at September 29, 2007 07:35 PM