It has been an idyll of days and of nights; the Idylls of the King, only nothing that could have been written by Tennyson. The man didn't have this lewd an imagination. She has been rolled on silks, tied in leather, brushed with suede... opened thoroughly in every combination in recent memory and a few she'd forgotten and has now been reminded of. It's hard not to love a man who does that, even when you hate him at the same time.
But these things have to end sooner or later. Other things call. Food calls. Bathing. Fiona's had to spend hours in a tub of water, luxuriating, reminiscing and packing away all experiences to be relived ... sometime later. Packed away for now, because now is not the time; lifting herself out of the water once she's able, preparing herself for her man. No, not that one. The Other One.
She's primped and preened and in general gotten herself looking all pretty; silk and satin and wool and lace in pink and white, hair brushed til it gleams and tied back so not a hair's out of place - but there's the suggestion it could be, pretty easily. Kitten heels and stockings, long waving skirt and pretty blouse, light sweater over it. She could be going for a stroll in the garden, or to bake cookies, at least based on the outer layers. Instead, she goes for where she thinks her other Husband is.
Davy? Are you up?
It has been an odd few nights. If he were asked point blank what was different or so odd about it all, Davydd'd have a hard time putting it into words. Days and nights have intermingled. He's been awake in both. He has stirred when he wants to, as he wants to, and his mind has been preciously blank. A month or so ago, the three nights you've spent in the arms of your other husband would have driven him to brooding, to mad drinking, to smoking and cussing and ranting and railing. Now?
He has taken the time, the quiet time of your absence, to transform his chambers. What was a simple guest room has become a suite of three chambers interlinked, doors replaced with archways between two chambers, beds traded out for sofas, chairs and tables. His bedroom, what was once two separate rooms, now contains a fireplace, a private living area, and French doors that lead into the bedchamber proper. Whatever residue of magic that lingered from this act has faded. It seems, simply, as if has always been this way.
He is no longer in between the realms of Day and Night. He is no longer suspended upon the breath of Three Queens - their hope, their faith, their vengeance. He simply is. There is no struggle. He has become, in the end, what he was meant to be. The Kingmaker.
Clothed in a dark green sweater and charcoal grey trousers, both spun of the wool of Welsh sheep, Davydd stands in his living room. An old and very weathered book rests in his hands, and the words his eyes absorb are his own. He glances up briefly as he hears you in his head. I'm in my room, oes. Come in. There is breakfast, he offers.
And as he speaks, the food appears. It appears from his whim without the slightest wave of his hand. Strolling from the window that overlooks the view of Wales, Davydd sets the old tome aside. He pours himself a cuppa with plenty of cream and sugar and waits on you arrival.
She moves to find you, find your rooms, she smiles - warmly, widely, the expression filled with affection that lights up her eyes. "Darling," Fiona murmurs. "Breakfast, too? You shouldn't have." She makes her way into the room to where you are, sneaking up next to you and bending to give you a kiss to the crown of your head.
She is happy to see you. Immediately, instinctively - she sees you and she is happy. It is as simple as that. "How are you, my love? You look relaxed. Moreso than I've seen in a while." Your hair is ruffled by female fingers, and she eases to the arm of your chair.
"Let's see, it's been a busy three days." So he can tell time. But he smiles quickly, glancing to you (and again at the flash of pink -- who died and made it spring?) "You just missed your son." Well, not just but he was here recently. Davydd reaches up, hand to the side of your head, and he holds you there as you bend to kiss him.
He smells like leather, wool, and heather water...
"I am ... something. I don't know that I've ever been relaxed. Is this it? Maybe." He sips at his tea, and nods to the food. Help yourself. He doesn't ask how you've been. He knows how you've been. He doesn't have to hear it through the walls to know.
"Now," his voice starts to rumble, it's a warm thing that throat-held, chest-trapped sound, and he looks to you as if over a pair of glasses, "...I know you and the Oak King didn't take much time to chat," he almost smirks at the thought. As if. "...so if you want me to fill you in on anything, let me know. Aeron and Bran're in town, by the by. I've set them on Cousin Gwynnie." One of the Morgan lasses, a descendant of your own Rhodri.
Settling back in his chair, hands laced on his sweatered stomach, Davydd looks at you. He looks at you without sulking, without questioning, without wondering even for an instant if you shouldn't rather be somewhere else...
"Which one?" She has so many sons now, after all. She smiles at you fondly. "Oh, good. Aeron and Bran will get on like a house on fire with Gwyn. That was a brilliant idea." She is with you. She is not thinking of him. She is not looking for him. There is the lure, the immediate pull, tug, draw, to you and to you alone...
Now though she does move to help herself to some tea, doctoring it to her liking and then moving to caress your cheek with her hand. "What's happened for me to know about?" Fiona asks. "No, I don't know anything. I've been out of touch. And I'm so glad to see you like this. It makes me feel warm inside."
Well, you do have more than one, don't you. Can it be that you have five sons? Five? Davydd looks mildly astonished and simultaneously amused. "Gwilym," he answers, his mouth sliding into a grin. The grins are quick to leap to his mouth; even when they don't vault like salmon up the currents of his face, they hover there, swimming about in his eyes. "Like I said... it's been a busy three nights. While you've been," and he pauses here, his expression waxing theatrically bland, "... delayed," he decides upon, "... i've crowned another king. I feel like the Welsh Rasputin."
Ha! Imagine me as Rasputin.
"He's off setting up his kingdom. I'm sure it will be amazing. You'll read about it in all the papers, I'm sure." You know, the Fairy Gazette, the Satyr Sun, and the Avalon Herald. Davydd takes a moment to reach for his cup of tea as you digest that news.
Well, that would certainly account for his mellow mood. A change of energies is afoot. Strangely, though he is rather sedate, he doesn't seem exhausted so much as bemused. As if he has suddenly been wakened and now sits up with a What the hell was all that? look upon his face.
"I'm glad he finally took it," Davydd murmurs. "I thought I was going to have to lob it at him. I don't miss it. Not a crown on my head, not a single one. Diolch Duw!" he says suddenly to himself... to you... to the universe.
No shortage of men in this family to carry on the line. Fiona smiles, sipping her tea and then shaking her head. "Crowned another one? What do you mean?" She sets the tea down, listening to what you have to offer. You bathe more often than Rasputin did.
"Gwilym? Really?" Nobody looks more surprised than Fiona when she's been caught by surprise. Is he ready? Really? "Well, it's about bloody time, isn't it!"
She laughs a bit, leaning to kiss the top of your head again, arms gently going around your neck from behind. "My darling Davy. You're still enthroned in my heart. Or do you want to get rid of that one, too?"
There's a grunted half-chuckle for Gwilym's readiness. "He's been ready. He just has commitment phobia. But, now that he's just taken it on, he's a world better than he was. I'm sure he'll stop by when he gets the chance. You can see it for yourself. The boy has a beard!" Now that's the most incredulous bit!
He closes his eyes briefly at the buss, but his lips cut a smirk. "Trying to escape are we?" And the peer he gives you is one best done over a pair of glasses. Still, the point is made. "That's the only one I've a mind to keep," he rumbles. "Seat's a bit crowded," with other kings, "...but it's a good throne, yeah?" He reaches up and gives you a pat. "I feel... lighter somehow. Light isn't really the word, but it's true, it was a weighty thing. My way's not bloody anymore," he notes. No, his penance and his duty to that seem done. But his work is not.
"I don't know how to really explain it, Fiona." There is a quiet sort of bemused frustration in his voice. He is at a loss for words, and that's a rare thing. Davydd peers at it, tries to figure it out, as he glances up and back at you. "It's like shedding skin. Everything feels new. More sensitive, in some ways. Like I feel the light differently, the darkness differently. Like I am ...growing new nerve endings. All over. And there's this... weird sort of quiet. It was a bit disconcerting at first," he smirks. "You know how I'm not used to a quiet mind, or a quiet anything for that matter. But," he exhales quietly, his head tilting in self-curiosity, "...I'm getting used to it."
"Commitment-phobia, hm. I wonder where he got that from." She teases you gently, hugging you from behind and closing her eyes; content to hold onto you, be warmed by your presence. "A beard? Tch. If I see that, I'll make him shave. My boys're too young to have beards!" Or so she thinks. She chuckles, a contented sound. "Your way's not bloody, but you're still here. I'm glad, Davy."
She straightens, running her fingers through your hair before coming round to look at you. "So - everything's changed again, but in a good way," Fiona suggests. "Change doesn't have to be a bad thing. Am I right? Or is it more than that?"
He laughs, knowing full well the source of Gwilym's ... commitment avoidance. For a moment he looks truly guilty and without contrition, but it fades for something warmer. There's something very warm and comfortable about Llywelyn just now. Could it be the outdoor chill and the Welsh wool sweaters?
"Your boys are men now, there's no avoiding it." He shakes his head with a tilt of his mouth and a quirk of an eyebrow. "So, everything's changed again. Well," he drawls out long and low, "...it keeps us young, don' it? And... no... it doesn't have to be bad. I think it's good. It's a relief. I'm a bit knackered but that's to be expected as the energy sorts out where it's going and how much is sticking around. I don't feel like I'm flaming out like a comet out of control, wagging fire and smoke all over the place," and he seems pretty happy about that. Again, a wash of relief. Those dark green eyes close as your fingers move through the fiery waves of his hair. He tilts his head into the touch. He likes it, he likes it very much.
"We'll see what it'll be," Davydd softly says. "But for the first time in a long time, I'm not worried. About anything." His eyes open, widened a bit. "Pretty fucking extraordinary, that." He doesn't feel adrift, and yet he does feel rather like he's floating, gently bobbing on a slow current. Where three nights with Rhodri would have sent him spinning into mouth-frothing jealousy, he seems to be emotionally shrugging. We won't call it serenity, but it's close.
"Keeps us young," Fiona agrees softly, smiling. She touches your shoulder and then your face. "You do look it, right now. As if more than weight's come off you; years. Centuries, maybe. Was this what you looked like, before the woods, before the wars against your brothers, before it all began?"
She holds your face in her hands, tipping it up to her and smiling at you, sharing your contentment in the moment. "Or is this more ... what you've become, Davy? Mellowing like wine... ripening like fruit. I don't know. But I do like seeing you like this. My adorable husband. Father," she chuckles, "ten times over, but a few of them are mine as well, at least."
"I am so far removed from that time," Davydd admits softly, "...that I couldn't tell y', girl. I just feel lighter. Like I've been wearing heavy armor for years and it's just fallen off my shoulders and back." And years and centuries have been rubbed off of him like so much mud and dirt. The weight of that alone would be like Atlas carrying the Earth in his pocket. And the face and the man that was beneath it is revealed.
He'd not know his mortal self if he was introduced to him at a party. But from out of that mud and out of the muck of centuries, bloody centuries, he sits there, his face in your hands. The mud had cracked his face, but now that it's gone hardly a wrinkle remains. In its place is the face of a young man with eyes too wise.
His hand lifts to capture a bit of your yellow hair, his eyes soon full of and bewitched by the pink vision within reach. A hand reaches up to one of your own still resting on his cheeks, and with it he guides you to sit upon his lap.
Looking into his eyes now, there are no worlds that are reflected there, no visions of Avalon, no visions of the Perilous Woods or Camelot or any such other fantastical place. There are only the dark green mirrors that reflect his thoughts, his soul, his moods, the portals to the spirit. Same as any man's.
And the tidal energy that had tugged and shoved him, pulled and pushed him between you and him, him and Rhodri, is gone, evaporated like water in the desert. He is out of the cycle, out of the loop. And for the first time in forever, there is just your skin and his. No sparking, no magic, just... touch. And that's the most extraordinary part of it all.
"I love you," Fiona murmurs. She leans in to kiss you, even as you guide her down to you, she leans up against you, curling up as comfortably as on a cushion. She closes her eyes, contentedly up against you. "My Davy... I'm glad. You feel free again. You feel you."
A hand lifts to your shoulder, one eye opens to peer at you, and she smiles. It is a glorying, wondering, girlish smile without complications. "I worried a little this would happen and you wouldn't love me anymore, you know," she murmurs. "That it was all - just magic. I wondered. But ... I know I still feel for you the way I have. If anything, it feels easier, all of a sudden..."
A trace of a smile peeks its way past his lips. "It does feel a little less... crowded." And he's not just talking Rhodri here. Davydd's voice is conspiratorially quiet, sharing a secret, sharing it in confidence. He seems content to hold you. There is no hunger, no lust. He doesn't hear your heartbeat; he doesn't taste your blood. There is just stillness and warmth.
The sweater helps conduct the heat from his skin to yours. There is mortal warmth, a natural, living warmth. He's like a Welsh iron stove burning on good old Welsh coal as his arms surround you. They are solid, thick, the arms of a chieftain used to wearing iron and steel. The hearth is nearby; it crackles, popping with conspiracies of its own.
"I like this," Davydd says after another moment. "Whatever it is. And... I was never worried about my not loving you," he chuckles. "Now, going vice-versa? I was less sure there. I know how you like all that intensity, the popping magic, the thrill of the chase and the hunt, you like the blood and the theft. In a way, it's good - I think - that you were with Rhodri for these last few nights. It's given me a bit of time to get used to it. You never liked easy, remember?"
Leaning back, he tips down his chin to you to look at you, the look complete with a cocked up eyebrow, a quirk of flame. "You've nothing to fear," he smiles slowly. "I still find you... quite fetching. I like you on my lap." His leg gives you a bounce and then Davydd leans in again, kissing you briefly, but plentifully.
The contentment is one shared by the both of you; she rests with you, eyes closed, content in easy intimacy. "I like it too," Fiona murmurs. "Whatever it is. I never worried about not loving you. Just that you'd wake up and find ... you didn't need me anymore. I mean, the entire reason you wanted me, you always said, was ... well ... mother to your children. A king needs children. At the beginning of things. Remember?"
The handclasp, the almost handshake, the sealing of agreements leading to tangling of bodies beneath the canopy of your bed. It was not so easy as is this, though. Not nearly so easy. "I never liked easy - but I also never liked the idea of losing you. For that ... I was ready to go through hell and back, Davy." Fiona smiles, looking up at you wistfully. "It's not that I lied ... just ... for you I'd do an awful lot, my darling man."
You bend, and she rises, following your kiss quickly, dolphin-like, kissing at your mouth as if snapping at the air. I love you. King of my heart, my hearth, my home...
"Gah, if you weren't here, where the hell would I be?" He laughs suddenly, the kisses interrupted as he sits back in the chair. His hands slip against you in his motion, scooping to hold you to him. Tilting his head against the back of the chair, Davydd shakes his head. "No, I need you," he murmurs. "You're my anchor in this world."
A hand leaves you but returns, reaching up to touch your face. Davydd is content to sit in silence for a time, content to look at you perched on his lap. In pink. He smiles to himself. "I like this," he mentions, a touch to the pink cloth. "Thank you for putting it on for me. I know pink would not be in your rainbow were it not for me." He chuckles at that with an all-too-knowing look. Deny it all you want; the man speaks the truth. "I appreciate the effort, truly."
The holly leaves and berries have departed from his skin, the dragons that guarded them gone to guard a new king. One his left arm, concealed by the thick Welsh wool, a new image is taking shape. He can feel it humming on his arm. He can feel the pinpricks of wakening flesh. Were he less aware of magic, he should think he's merely turned on...
Of course, there is that too...
His eyes sparkle in the low light of the fire, and they travel from your face to other destinations. Your mouth, your throat, the curve of your hips, the bend of your knee as you sit curled on his lap. "The hunger is gone," he notes, still astonished. "That grip on me... I could taste your blood at the back of my tongue at a whim. But now?" His face makes a visible shrug. "The burn is gone. But... I still want to feel your skin. In fact," Davydd tips his head to the side, his gaze traveling down the curve of your waist. "...I ... really want to feel what it is like to hold you... skin to skin... without all that noise and intensity. I've never felt you when you hadn't burned my blood or made my skin jump." Suddenly Davydd laughs, his grin a quick comet streak in the firelight. "Course, since you've been in bed the last three nights solid, you might be over that..."
"Good," Fiona whispers, and for a moment there is the sparkle of tears unshed as she rests against you. "If you didn't need me ... I don't know what would happen to me. Part of my world would come adrift."
She smiles at you, nuzzles up against you as you thank her for what she does for you and only for you. Her hands come up to caress your chest in a slow spread of fingers, she leans to you, listening to you as if for your heartbeat, to steal your breaths.
"My Davy," Fiona murmurs. "Let's do it." Her hands slip down, beginning to wiggle and work there way up under your wools. "My Welsh king, c'mon. Over it? Over what?" She pulls back, giving you an incredulous look, then laughs. "Davy, you aren't Rhodri. You're you, and all I want is you, right now. All I want is you."
He might have brooded about that before. He might have scowled in his own incredulity at such words as You aren't Rhodri. But not tonight. Davydd chuckles, a rumble in his throat and chest. Not all his intensity is gone; his stare is intense as your hands wiggle under the Welsh wool. Beneath the soft wool, hard muscle and warm flesh. "Yes, over it. Tired of being admired. Tired of being horizontal. Every time you come back," he grins, "I wonder about that. How much more can you fucking take? You're only human."
And he knows Rhodri doesn't show you any mercy. So it's on me, then.
A glance to the wool and your fingers, and then he looks to your face. He doesn't move to pick you up and carry you to the bedroom. Not yet. Here by the fire is so much warmer, and so very convenient. Davydd takes up the hem of his sweater and begins twisting out of it.
His marks are virtually unchanged on his stomach, torso and chest, on his shoulders. But his left arm, the arm that once belonged to Holly, is nothing short of breathtaking. Starting at the shoulder and going to his wrist, is a brilliant set of images completely unlike the others. The main image is of the dragon, his symbol, coiling around his arm, covering the large bicep and reaching down to his forearm with its claws grasping the throat of a fallen bull, the symbol of Mithras at his elbow. The bull is Persian in breed and is engraved upon his skin with Farsi words, Persian imagery and Eastern artistry. The Roman-British standard of the Welsh principalities is there as well, set into the earth of his arm and waving in the breeze at his shoulder. And all around this scene of him conquering the beast, is a visual landscape of Avalon, and the joining of him with your kingdom and Iowerth's with its Roman columns. The colors and shading are in so many variants of blue - light, cobalt, to deep midnight and even a touch of violet.
Balling up the sweater, Davydd tosses it basketball like toward to the sofa and away from the fire. "Your turn," he says quietly, sitting back in the chair. He looks from your face to the buttons and fastenings of your clothing. Piece by piece, you will unclothe and so will he. Piece by piece you will come to know one another.
"I can take you," Fiona retorts, chuckling as she pulls off sweater and blouse together. Beneath there is pink lace, and not much of it. One shoe and then the other is kicked off as she rocks on your lap, leaning in and up to kiss you lingeringly. Then and only then she leans back, watching you, looking at you - examining you, much as when she first saw your skin and its markings unveiled.
"You've finally beaten him," Fiona murmurs, drawing a fingertip along the bull. You have told her about Mithras; a version of the old tale, at least. "And ... things are growing out of it. With Gwilym crowned..."
With the crowns removed from his head and put upon those of his children and grandchildren, what he is now is what he was supposed to have been, what he was meant for. He is Ragnall's Slayer, the dragon that downed the bull. But that murder, that act of preserving Britain by destroying the very Persian demi-god who had sought to grant him everlasting life-in-servitude, was not complete when the sword sliced off his head. For centuries, Davydd had thought that it was The End. Turns out that was only The Beginning.
And when Ian Dunross and William Plantagenet and Edward Christophe Phillipe Meurelle of Blois came together those years ago to finish, they thought, what Mithras had started, Davydd believed his friendships were slaughtered by his own hand. He thought, just until this moment, that was the end of the story. But it wasn't. It isn't. Like the Three Queens before them, those Three Kings simply made it possible for the story to continue as it needed to, for things to come to him as they have, for him to reach this place.
It always comes in threes. And always when most needed.
They helped him finish what he started. They helped him kill Mithras completely, each one of them, with Blois giving the hardest blow and with Plantagenet giving last rites. Without the Queens, Davydd wouldn't have survived the battle with Mithras. Without the Kings, Davydd wouldn't have survived the battle with himself.
These are the things that crowd his brain as your finger traces the body of the fallen bull. Davydd turns his head to watch the trajectory of your finger, to watch his flesh move beneath the slight press of your hand. "The part of him that lingered on, it took my friends to kill. My hands, their love," he murmurs. "I couldn't have done it without them. I couldn't have done it without you." He looks at you, the hero of this unfolding story, looks at you like Ulysses must have looked at Penelope upon stepping foot on the soil of home, after traveling the world and years to get to her.
But this isn't the End, either.
His eyes wander the oceans and the earth of your body, your pink lace, what there is of that. Such a soft pink - a glance, and a man could think you topless. And what a mirage that makes. His hands lightly hold you - barely felt in touch, but they keep you balanced on his lap. They hold you in place, as his body rolls up from where it was settled, vertebra by vertebra lifting from the back of the seat in his lean forward. The motion culminates in a kiss.
In one bedroom, you have a Thief. That Thief is without compare. He drapes you furs. He adorns you in jewels. He captures you and frees you, neither when you ask or as you wish. He captures your imagination. He plunders your body...
But the man that holds you now is neither Thief nor King. He is not royal, he is not noble. And his kiss tells you everything you need to know. You kiss a Slayer, a Warrior, not a King.
Your queen, your wife remains upon your lap, watching you move, her smile a little skewed. "But you've come home, yes? They helped... but you're here. With me."
Here. With me... It is a concept which seems almost surprising to her, catching her by surprise. You have, after all, often been here. But have you? You have been lost, beleaguered, badgered, almost senseless with grief and frustration at times. And here you are. Here. With her.
Her hands are warm; her body leans in to you, as if it were the very end of the world, and she were leaning in for one last kiss before Time itself were stopped, all the clocks run down in many-storeyed History. And you kiss her, and you are exactly what she wants...
What was she, on her own road, before meeting you? She wasn't a thief. She was punk, but she was punk because she fought. She fought every man and woman who came in range, so that the only ones who knew her were the ones who'd known her before she grew her prickly spines. And you rammed into those spines and rolled her over so her soft belly was exposed. And you won her.
Just like a Warrior would.
You kiss her, and she leans in and kisses you back. Fiona's hands lift to slide into your hair, and she holds you in place to kiss you with eager hunger. Mine. My Davy...
He was right: he couldn't go on trying to be everything to everyone. He was asked to shoulder far more than most, but just enough for him to withstand. The universe always knows when the camel's back is just about to break. But that couldn't last. It wasn't meant to. It was never meant to.
You are scooped up, moved upon his lap until his stomach can feel your skin, until his chest can feel your lace. There is blessed quiet. The fire pops. Mouths move. Breaths exchange. But the sparks don't fly from the hearth to your skin. The need he feels doesn't make him want to rip his heart or yours from their respective chests. There isn't a chorus of What Ifs and Oh Buts jamming his ears and crowding his brain. There is nothing left for the warrior to prove. He's proved it. It was the furthest thing from easy, but he's deserved this peace and quiet and the near topless woman pressed to his chest.
What there is of Struggle is the enjoyable kind. His hands splay against your long skirt, pushing it up, crumpling the lace. It'll take weeks of ironing to get it back in shape. Arms are strong, chest and shoulders bared to the markings - each muscle is employed to scoop you up again, your stomach now against his chest, his mouth warmly seeking your breasts.
The lengthening canines of the dragon are still there, but rather than piercing flesh to pirate your blood and your magic, they are employed instead for the shredding of lace. Fabric is plucked instead of your skin. Thread by thread, the lace snaps, his breaths beating out the tempo of the fight.
You are held balanced by the Slayer's hand, the legend of the Slaying of Mithras wrapping around you as his right hand pulls at the skirt to tug it up over your hips. Easier to pull it up than pull it off altogether. Both hands join in on the task as his arms brace you up high, and his mouth ruins the lace from one breast to the next, the sound of lace threads popping that mimics the fire's.
One husband to steal your heart, the Other to conquer it...
One husband to tie and free your body; the Other to gallop over it...
One husband to adorn you, to pamper you, to make you the Queen that you are...
The Other to burn the crops of your soul to make it ripe for Flowering once more...
Posted by rowan at January 03, 2008 10:10 PM
