It had been a long, eventful day. When the ship landed in the kingdom of Silures, it was with great pomp and ceremony -- not from the Crowned Prince or his fleet -- but from the shore. Young girls, fresh-cheeked and of all shapes and sizes, lined the road to throw flowers and herbs and the future king's feet -- and some of them, a good many of them, were prepared to throw their hearts... and a few other things... at him as well. Needless to say, there were a good many who were surprised (very!) to see a princess already in tow with the royal entourage. What some had hoped would be a tour of the prince to meet the young eligibles was now, it seemed, a preview of a royal coupling to come.
     And now the lamps and candles that were lit for dinner have been extinguished, and the plates that had appeared from the aether have returned there. The only illumination comes from the sky itself. The wide swath of stars, an exaggerated Milky Way -- the kind that only exists in dreams -- stretches overhead in silvery wonder.
     The meal of seasoned beef and tomatoes and cinnamon, savory cheeses and breads had been laid out, a proper banquet, after you and your prince returned to the ship and spent some time apart -- more time apart, is what the prince would say -- to freshen up from the long day and to rest. The dinner was followed by dessert in the form of figs and dates, honey and almond cakes. There was sweet water that accompanied it and a gently diluted wine. Nothing that might inspire two young hearts any more than they already were simply by being in the other's presence..
     Grand cushions, the comforts of the dinner that was, now provide the sofas for digestion. Stretched out upon his back, his arms folded beneath his head, Gruffydd looks at the swath of silvery stars that run from horizon to horizon. He is clothed in a thin pull over -- it is cool on the water at night, even in the summer -- and a pair of captain's breeches, midnight leather. His dark hair, wavy and thick, is tousled by the breeze that brushes past him, past you, and against the sails made of dragon's wings.
     Gruffydd turns his head upon his cushion to look to you -- leaving one set of stars for another -- and he smiles a little. Though it is slight, it is deep. "I want the ceilings of my basilica to look like this. To feel, even when I am inside, that I am moving or sleeping beneath the stars. Day or night... I want to dream, I want my people to dream, of ... whatever is they want or wish for most, and to try to live it, to be it, to grasp it."
     Looking back to the stars, the future king takes on a dreamy look himself. His smooth face is beautiful when he is in rapture. "What is it that you most dream of, Mari?" he quietly wonders. It is a nickname he has given you; a term of fondness, of endearment.

     It has all been new, and exciting, and she is entirely without complaints - even though the sea air has made her hair frizzier and wilder and more untamable than ever. She has taken to wearing it loosely braided and tied at the end with a strip of leather thong, and she has run across the ship in a pair of brown breeches and a white jerkin belted at the waist. At first glance she may have been mistaken for a cabin boy, but no one makes that mistake for long.
     In port, she has blossomed out as a princess indeed, with no small amount of help from Fiona. What she and your estimable grandmama have had to say to one another is a secret shared between them - but there have been occasional fits of giggles when you hove into view. It must be disconcerting...
     Tonight, she is dressed in palest pink, trimmed with gold lace spun as if by mechanical spiders. Perhaps they have been; your father Tiernan has made such creatures before, in his workshop. Maria looks to the sky, then looks to you. She knows which she prefers to gaze upon; she smiles at you, her heart upon her sleeve.
     "The trouble with dreams is that they have to be tempered with wisdom, my mother always tells us." She leans forward to adjust your cushion, then settles again, looking at your face. "What do I dream of? I don't - I don't really know. Everything I've ever dreamed of..." She hesitates; looks up to the moon, cheeks growing flushed with embarrassment. "Well... really... it's - it's silly..."

     "My mother comes from a ...different school of Thought," Gruffydd answers. In the quiet, speaking to you quietly, his accent becomes his own -- something of the region of dates, but it is without region in truth. It is light and lilting -- a gift of the angels of the East and of the lyricism of Wales. "She says: dream big or dream small, dream of what could be, dream of the impossible, the improbable. For that is the only way to make miracles happen."
     Turning his head to you again, Gruffydd's eyes are strangely wise for one so young. He sees you blush and there is a certain light that glimmers in his periwinkle gaze. "No dream is silly," the crown prince says, and unfolding his hands from beneath his head, he rolls over upon his side to look to you. You sit so near. He taunts himself with your nearness...
     ... Your giggling has always been a delight to him. Always -- he catches himself upon the thought. It is as if you have been with him so long already! But it is so short a time in reality. But over the past several days and nights, the past week or so of the journey, your giggling and flushing fits have more than once caused him to look at himself an make sure his zipper was not down.
     A flutter of gold catches his attention. He smiles at it, at you, and rolls over again to lie upon his back. It is safer that way, he knows. He traps his hands, tucking them beneath his head once more. "But then, my mother is an Angel of Dreams. She tends to encourage flights of fancy. So... what is your fancy, sweet Mari? I want to know this one... that makes your cheeks so red."
     His mouth spreads in a warm smile as he looks at you, his face framed by the stars that cover the sky. "If you do not tell me, how can I ever make them come true?"

     Maria listens to you, looks at you, smiling at you again with a mixture of shyness and delight. There is that hint of sauciness still, the way she looks at you sidelong as if deciding what to say, how to say it, whether or not to give you an answer at all. "My biggest dream was always to get out of mother's kingdom." She pulls her cushion over closer, reaching to lightly swat at your hair.
     "It isn't that there's anything wrong with home. It's home, that's all. And I've always known that the world is a bigger place; I didn't like to be caged in such a small space, and I don't like my cousins, and reading about things isn't the same as DOING them, as seeing them for myself." Maria stretches out to lie on her stomach, head tilted so that she can still see you - can still smile at you, the smile widening a bit. "You've already made it come true, Gruffydd. More than I ever thought anyone could. I always thought I'd get to see things, someday. I didn't ever think it would be like this."

     "So now you will have to come up with another dream," he quietly says. "One down... many more to go." He has to lie on his hands - so his look tells you when you pull a bit closer. Even in the darkness, you can see his caramel complexion deepen a notch. This is as close as he can be to having you in his arms -- you resting on the cushion beside him.
     You will find another poem tucked under you pillow tonight. He will be jealous of the cushion. He will wonder how cotton and feathers and silk became so lucky as to find themselves beneath you. And then he will wonder, indeed, how he became so lucky to be near you beneath the stars...
     "I dream about all sorts of things," he admits quietly. "About what sort of king I would like to be. What sort of kingdom I would like to create. I dream about flying. About visiting my mother's heavenly home, the Pomegranate Palace, and visiting my sisters. I dream about singing. Funnily enough," he chuckles softly, "I never really dreamed about falling in love. I suppose it is true what they say: it shows up when one isn't looking for it particularly."
     You are so near -- and he knows his grandmother is watching. But he cannot help at least an innocent touch. A hand slides out from beneath his head and reaches over to twine his fingers with your own. "I dream of grand things and small things. Tiny things, impossible things. Sometimes, I wake and... there they are. Others, others take many years and a great deal of practice. I have one dream, a little dream, personal." He grins sidelong, like you ... trying to decide whether or not to tell you. "I think I would rather surprise you with it..."
     Periwinkle eyes twinkle as he looks overhead to the stars once more. And they twinkle, their light shimmering above. Some of the shimmers seem to be traveling, moving. And then, you see that it is raining...
     But the drops are not liquid. They are white flower petals -- the fragrant rose, the tender Chrysanthemum. They drift downward and drip-drop upon your cheeks, your neck, your chest and here and there upon your dress.
     Gruffydd sneaks a look at you. He is quick to look away, his attention settling on the stars. And then a sound, deep and soft, beautiful, sounds. His voice. The notes that rise and fall are that of a tone poem, like the prayers of Eastern Mystics and Pious Mullahs. Gruffydd closes his eyes, beautiful music leaving his equally beautiful lips:
     The feather you hold is my heart,
     Plucked from my skin like the petal from a flower.
     See how easily you hold me?
     How light I am in your grasp?
     And in your fingers, I can fill volumes of poetry.
     Dip me in ink.
     Put me to work.
     Kiss me in the quiet of your chamber.
     Out of the eyes of your maids, tickle me along your belly.
     (I love to hear you laugh.)
     Until I can hold you, hold me.
     The feather you hold is my heart.
     When it appeared in your chamber, that poem, before you left for his ship, could you have imagined it would sound like that? That it held such emotion? Such sensuality?

     Her hand tightens on your own, and she smiles again, softer, now, gentler, without the biting edge of mischief between you and her and your mingling emotions. "I don't know what kind of a queen I'd make," Maria admits to you quietly. "If I stop and worry about it, stop and think, I'm afraid I might do something stupid, something impossibly foolish, such as let the best thing I've ever known slip through my fingers in a fit of self-sacrifice. I'm not letting myself think too much, Gruffydd. I - I suppose it's selfish of me. But mother seems to think I'll do all right, and - and I'd like to believe mum. Do you mind?"
     Her hand tightens again, and she leans towards you - it is tempting, to her as well as you, the notion of stealing a kiss. She is diverted from it by a glance upwards as something brushes her cheeks, and her grey eyes widen, in surprise and delight.
     And then you are singing...
     The color rises into her skin, blush vividly painted, and she looks to you, then away; little glances, stolen with yearning and suspected knowledge. Her eyes well up with moisture, a few tears escaping her, and Maria has to look away to the sea. "Every night," she whispers. "Until it is you, my prince."

     The song, his voice, drifts off as easily as the breeze over the ocean. And the breeze lifts the fallen petals, tossing them here and there over you, him, the deck. "You will be a fine queen, Maria," the prince softly assures. "I have faith in you. Besides... if you love me... and if you wish to build something with me, how could you be otherwise? You have a sweet and compassionate heart. And I think our people will treasure you even as I have come to. So... do not worry. No one knows how to do such a thing until it is asked of them. We will figure it out together, you and I."
     His hand in yours, he draws it to his mouth. That is the kiss he will steal tonight, the one he takes now and gives now upon your knuckles. He closes his eyes -- a moment of reverence and emotion for him.
     He does not know what you and the queen have discussed, or what knowledge your cousin may have imparted to you. He knows only the words he has written, the words he has whispered on the air to tickle your ear as you and he lay in separate rooms and separate beds.
     "We will probably laugh when we are finally able to hold one another," he says suddenly, opening his eyes at your knuckles with a grin. He lowers your hand, but he does not set it free. "It will take me a week to stop looking over my shoulder, I am certain. But... half the fun of it is pretending. Pretending is another form of dreaming. And I am looking forward to dreaming actively with you. It will be some time before we take our position, but... it will not be so long as that before we are able to take one another. I want all of the kingdoms invited to the spectacle. I want everyone to take note of it. It is vain, I know," he admits with a sidelong smile, "...but I want everyone to see you, and to see how I look at you. A thousand eyes to witness how much I love you. And I want to marry you in a mirrored hall, so you can see the reflection of it all. See it in my eyes a thousand times over."
     Lifting his head, Gruffydd surveys the deck, glancing to you now and then. You see it in his intense focus -- that focus that fixes on you. "I want to kiss you," he whispers. "But I am not ready to be separated, sent to my corner of the ship and you to yours." Slanting, his mouth knows that is what would happen. Suddenly the queen would appear! And he will have to say good night.
     Lowering back to the cushion, Gruffydd rolls over to lie upon his stomach. He sighs, his face resting on the silken pillow and turned toward you. "I do not want you to worry, to spend any thought on failure. Think instead of what you would like to do, what change you would like to affect upon the world, how you would want to make it better. Think about how wonderful it will be to lie together on the same cushion, instead of two separate cushions... at least three inches apart!" He chuckles at that, repeating Fiona's admonition. "I think of it... all day," he softly admits. "Whenever I pass by and you giggle, especially then. And I dream of swimming with you on the Maria Islands before we turn toward the Capitol. Are you excited to see them?"

     "When. At least it's when and not if." Maria sniffs slightly, then laughs, closing her eyes for a moment. She is imagining the pictures you paint with your gilded tongue. She opens her eyes again, holding onto your hand as if you'll vanish, turn into Fiona in a puff of smoke and flower petals, and she stares at you as if trying to memorize you.
     "I never thought it would be like this," Maria murmurs to you. "I - wish I were more of a poet, to tell you how you make me feel, Gruffydd. I wish I were as clever, as creative as you. I feel very small next to you; not because you're so tall, or, well," she makes a face, then giggles, "not just because of it. But you've got such depths in you. I - well," she frowns, "I'm worried I won't be deep enough. That I cannot match you. I want to be good enough - as a queen, as whatever. Mother always says it's important for people to grow together and not apart. And you're already so much ... more than I am..."
     She squeezes your hand, skin tingling where your kiss has landed. "I love you," Maria whispers. She blushes, sitting up abruptly, measuring space with one eye. "Six inches," she tells you regretfully, "if it's a single one. I am excited, yes. I hope that your grandmother will let us swim together. Do you think she will?"

     "I shall ask her sweetly," Gruffydd softly replies and in it there is an embrace, a hug of tones instead of arms. "And if she is not moved," he smiles, eyebrows lifting as his eyes widened, "...then I shall beg."
     There is only the sound of the ship for a moment. All that is around is the lifting and lowering of the galleon on the swells of the sea. There is the sound of water moving, thudding against the hull, and then there is the soft sound of his cushion sighing beneath his shifting weight. Gruffydd lifts to look here and there, and he listens for any throat clearing admonitions. And then, the six degrees and however many inches of separation are breached.
     Beside you on your cushion, the prince draws you into a hug. "If I am too far ahead, then I will pause and wait for you," he says. His hand reaches up and brushes back the wildness of your hair. "And I do not think I am so far ahead, Maria. And you, not half so far behind as you feel. I have simply had more opportunity, but now... that opportunity is also yours. You do not have to be...good enough to be my wife or my queen. I want you, as you are, with your heart, as it is. And when you change, I will watch you. When you walk, I will hold your hand, and we will walk whatever road this is or will be together."
     There is no sly seduction, no untamed kissing about to breach the walls of your virginity. There is simply his support. In this, is true love truly displayed. "I like you and I love you. And I do not wish for you to be anything other than who you are today. And the next day -- we will leave that to Tomorrow. Come," he whispers, and he rolls to lie upon his back, his arm around you drawing you in to lie against him.
     "I will not tell you too much about your islands -- I want you to see them for yourself -- but there are apple and pear trees there so we will always have snacks. The water is very blue and very clear. You will be able to see the angel fish swimming around your ankles as you wade through the bay. And there are waterfalls and warm spring pools in shadowed, sheltered glades. And gardens of all your favorite flowers. When you think of them, they will appear."
     His hand reaches up as he holds you, his fingers moving against your scalp, twining through and tangling in your hair. "When you are crown princess, you can choose to build something in the Capitol. A library perhaps, filled with the books you like and treasure. You can collect as many as you like, if you wish." Gruffydd looks from the stars to your face. Your face is so near now. He is spellbound by you, by your sweetness, by your tenderness, by the memories of your giggling, and by your loveliness -- loveliness that comes from within you as well as the loveliness of your face and lips and skin and figure. His lashes lower a touch as his gaze becomes transfixed by your lips.
     He does not look around for the bogeyman-chaperone. He does not seem to care in this instance. Gruffydd closes his eyes as he indulges in a kiss.
     It is not fiery, wicked, or teasing. It is soft, it is warm, and it is loving.

     She moves to you after a cautious glance around, then sighs - a contented, happy sound, with a soft giggle behind it as you scoop her in. You have her caught - and there is no one she would rather be with, trapped by. Her hands lift to your chest, then to frame your face as she meets your gaze with her own, and looks to you with enraptured expression.
     I ... love you...
     It is so strange, to think of being in love. I am only sixteen. I have not begun to live, in some ways. And here I am, facing you, and I find myself in love. Imagine! A world that I had not known existed. I scorned fairy tale romance, because how could it possibly be real?
     And here I am. With my fairy tale prince...
     "I would like that," Maria whispers. Her fingers draw gently against your skin, and her eyes close as well as your mouth descends to hers. How could anyone be so cruel as to interrupt such young lovers?
     It is best not to ask. And so he does not utter a question. He does not look around in guilt, or whisper a joke, not even a hint of 'will she, won't she'.

     Gruffydd comes upon his side to face you. Your hands cradle his face. His hands remain around you, his one still tangled in your hair. You are young, he thinks to himself as the kiss dissolves, leaving you still in his arms and sharing a cushion. But I will wait for you.
     Grinning, Gruffydd remains nose to nose with you. "Whatever you want, the whole world is open to you, Maria. And all its possibilities. And my heart, and all its possibilities. I am excited about this, not merely because I am in love with you, though..." His lavender eyes sparkle with a wink and his lips slant. "I find that tremendously inspiring and exciting. But it is ... the start of something. The ...birth of something new. And we get to make that, you and I, together. We get to learn together, to experience it together."
     It is inspiring. Quite. The totality of it fills his eyes with shards of violet and blue. He is swept off his feet by you, quite clearly taken. So it was painfully obvious to all the girls in the kingdom of Silures. "Not only do I get to learn you," Gruffydd warmly whispers, "...and who you are, what you like. I get to learn us. What we can make."
     "I love you," he murmurs at your mouth, kissing you with the slap of a wave against the side of the ship. The kiss is no less tender in its way, but it is decidedly more passionate. Gruffydd sighs, the side of his nose stroking your own. "I had better get back to my own cushion..."
     See, nainie? he would say. I am trying!
     You are trying, comes the amused response to the thought, unvoiced. But yes, you had best get back to your own cushion.
     A rat clings to a bit of line, winking one bright eye from somewhere above. I am not merciless, you know - even if you think I am. But we needed to get you both out from under her parents' eyes before you could canoodle. You will have your moments, Gruffydd. Just not much more than moments, until we reach your parents. Well. And the rest.

     Maria hears nothing, sees nothing but you; her lips are parted, and she turns to you, reluctant to allow your withdrawal. Even as necessary as it is. "I want to know everything there is to know about us. It is an undiscovered world, isn't it? You. Me. How strange it is," she marvels, voice softened by kisses, lips seeming not quite to want to part. "That we could meet, that our paths even could cross, Gruffydd. It is so strange..."
     I am more of a friend to romance than you might think, Fiona tells you in the back of your mind. Even if I did sign on for a difficult job, it isn't because of any reason other than wanting your long-term happiness. And - you love her.

     He does not startle at the sound of his nainie's voice in his head, or even at the winking rat that he hopes skips the princess' attention. I do love her. And I know you are only doing what is right. Even as I want to do what is right. For her and for the kingdom. I may be a young man, nainie, and at times hardheaded and vain, but I am sensible. And honorable. I do not wish to make it too difficult for you. I do respect you and love you, of course.
     Gruffydd grins, a final kiss taken for now. Firm and sweet -- like you! He chuckles to his own thoughts and with the quiet clearing of his throat retreats to his own cushion and reclines once more upon his stomach.
     "It is an adventure," he smiles easily as he rests his cheek on his hands, trapping them and providing a pillow upon his pillow. "I do not think it is strange that we met. I think we were always going to meet." Your mother and his father are close after all. "But to like one another so instantly, and you... not wanting to marry me straight off. That you should have liked me by the end of the first day. Now, that is amazing to me. I wasn't looking to fall in love. I was looking forward only to the banquets. I do like buffet style eating." He grins at that.
     "But then ... there you were, threatening me with an apple and professing your intense desire never to marry me. I was instantly infatuated. All of those princesses and duchesses in Silures throwing herbs and flowers at me would have all professed instant love, only seeing the crown I offer, and not the rest, not the possibilities of building anything. They see money and power. And... maybe they like the way I look well enough. I expected that... and it didn't interest me in the slightest. But you... you caught my eye instantly. Falling out of your tree, a riot of carefree hair and an even more liberated tongue." He sighs.
     "I may be a prince in a fairy tale, but that doesn't mean I like simple girls who bat their eyelashes at me but can't complete a sentence without squealing. If I could say: this is the kind and sort of girl I like and will one day marry, you would be it, Mari. Smart, very lovely, compassionate and kind. Willing and desirous of learning. Capable of dreaming for things other than rings and shoes."
     He is quiet a moment, obviously struck by a sudden thought. He glances at you, and you can see him debating something. And then, mind made up, he looks to the stars above. He places his finger upon one of them, as if he could touch it from light-years away, and then he drags his finger downward. The star in the sky becomes a comet, and dust falls into the palm of his hand. It is silver and beyond silver. It is starlight made manifest. In the heart of his palm it glimmers and he breathes a word or two upon it, a strange but beautiful, magical language. It is not so much made up of syllables and letters as it is tones and sound. And when he looks to you again, there is a ring held in his hand.
     A large stone with more brilliance than a diamond sits in the center setting, and similar but smaller stones are set tumbling down from it -- a comet made manifest in art and jewelry.
     "I was going to wait until we were on your island, but ... I don't want to wait. And I don't want to leave this to political paperwork," contracts done and signed already. Sitting upon his knees on the cushion, Gruffydd looks to you, holding the ring in one hand and offering you his other -- to help you sit up to face him. "Princess Maria, I give you this from my heart and from the stars that are reflected in it. I give it to you as a symbol and as a promise of my love. For all your life, I will hang stars from your earlobes and drape galaxies around your neck. For all of your life, I will enjoy and delight in making you happy. There is no better queen for me, no sweeter girl for me, than you. And you and I... together... we are going to make something worthy of dreams," he murmurs. The starlight ring is held to you, for you to take. His gaze is star-bright but steady.
     I love her... Queen Mother. I would marry her now. Right now, attended by only the stars above and the sea below. And a rat on a rope. I ... appreciate all you have done for me. Do not think because I am... impassioned and impatient that I am likewise ungrateful...

     You return to your cushion and she to hers, with whatever reluctance you both feel. Her lips are parted, as if to kiss the air in your absence, and she curls up with knees drawn to her chest, resting her cheek upon her knee. "I didn't want to want you. I didn't - want to be rejected by you, of course," Maria tells you the truth, quietly, but without fear. You will not reject her - she believes it, at least right now. "But here you were, and everyone was going to make a fuss over you, and I ... did not want to be making a fuss over you. I did not want to be expected to bat my eyelashes. So I decided that I would not like you, and I would do what I could to make sure you knew, right away, that I was not for you."
     I know you do, your nainie tells you, her tone one of tolerant amusement. You cannot marry her - but you can kiss her. I am not going to stop you from enjoying your time together, and the fruits of your love. I am just going to stop you from consummating it fully. I am cruel in my way; it would be kinder if I forbade you to touch her at all, I suppose, but I'm too soft-hearted to be kind.
     Maria still has eyes only for you. She listens to you, she watches you, she blushes for you, and when she looks up, it is only to follow the movement of your hand. Grey eyes widen, startled into stormclouds of emotion; she takes your hand with a shocked sort of hush to her features and her voice, and she is moved to rain; tears spring into her eyes, trembling there as you hold out the ring. "I - oh... I, I will try to be worth it, Gruffydd. I will try to keep up with you - no, I won't. I'll try to outdo you at every turn, to be better than you ever thought possible." She juts her chin up, tears sparkling as they trickle down her cheeks. "I will try to be the best queen ever imagined, because I love you too much to ever let it get too easy and too complacent between us. And - and I wish I had something to throw at you right now!" The ring is grabbed from you, and she looks away as she tries to shove it onto her finger awkwardly, with a bit of a sniffle.

     The future high queen (one day, one day) snatches the ring from the future high king (one day, one day). It is unceremonious and delightful. Gruffydd laughs easily and musically as his hand is suddenly devoid of ring. He opens up his palm in a Presto! fashion and grins as you set it on your finger. It is meant for your hand; it fits it perfectly.
     Voila...
     "I would suggest a thing or two to throw," he says airily, his smile wisping like a cloud across the sky of his expression. "But I should hate to take the fun out of it for you." Soon, he is off his cushion and onto yours again, and you are drawn into a hold, warm and strong shelter offered for your trembling shock. He lifts a hand to your face, brushing back a little of your wild hair, and he smiles a far more tender smile, far more fond. "I will do my best to keep up with you, Maria. You besting me will make me a better man and a better king. I expect no less from the Girl Who Throws Apples."
     Periwinkle sparkles in a quick wink, and his hands cradle your face to his kiss. It is intimate, a consummation of its own. It knows you by now, and it knows what it takes to make you sigh. It is tender. It would not so much as bruise the petal of an orchid. But it is more than tropical. The sensuality he has introduced you to is there again as he delights in all things You. Your softness, your innocence, how you are learning, how and where you are still naive. You. Your taste, your texture, your acquiescence and your resilience.
     He does no more than kiss you, but such a kiss. What more does he need to do than this? Even as he draws you with him to settle on the cushion, he keeps his hands tenderly to your face. His lips, his tongue, his knowledgeable mouth needs no other co-conspirators. If a kiss is all that shall be allowed, then it shall contain all that he wants to feel of her, and all that he wants her to feel of him.
     Up above, a squat raven settles on the Crow's Nest (where else?). Ugh. bRomance. I think I'm going to be ill.

     The clinging rat has no qualm about this kiss, but some qualms about ravens. Hush, you. It's very sweet. Are you taking over for me, then? If so, I'll go as soon as they come up for air. She wants to see her grandson's happiness. But she wants to see her husbands, too. Now, perhaps, more than ever.
     Maria sighs for the kisses, for the words, for everything. Tears spill down her cheeks unchecked and unheeded. Her hands clutch at your shirt-front, and she sniffles again, voice wobbling before it firms. "I love you, Gruffydd. I love you..." Her words trail off as she flings her arms up around your neck to return the kiss with impassioned and unpracticed ardor. The ring sparkles from her hand, but it is for the moment as if it weighs nothing at all.

     The rook cocks his head this way and that and opens his stygian beak for a silent belch. I'm getting a bit woozy from all the treacle. Yes... I have been sent to spare you. And not a moment too soon! Black feathers ruffle in a full body shudder and he swoops down from the Crow's Nest to settle beside you on the rope.
     But the boy does have nice technique, I'll give him that. So, the raven's head cocks to the side again, I have been sent by no fewer than two kings, dearest mumsie. They said to meet them forthwith in Avalon. Apparently you've been out of the roost for weeks and they're starting to hump the furniture. I hear it's not safe for maid nor pillow in Avalon these days! He cackles at that, flapping his wings.
     Oh... and I've a little surprise for you as well. It's all in the note you'll find in your pocket when you decide to stop being a rat. Of course... perhaps I should just tell you. It's not as if you'll be reading for the next week.

     Down below, oblivious to squawking, nauseated ravens and wistful rats, Gruffydd smiles as he's sobbed on. "I know," he whispers. "And I love y..." The You disappears into the kiss as the princess matches his fire for fire. There is some amount of rolling on the cushions. But blame romance and the sea...

     Ugh. I'm not sure whether I'm seasick or lovesick. If I weren't so black, I'd be green! Still... there will be six loving arms to tend me when I return. I'll have you know, mumsie, that I have whittled my gathering down to my two most favorite. Innana, the kidnapped houri, ...and Drusilla, the kidnapped four-armed granddaughter of the most famous jeweling family of the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree. While I've no stomach for romance, I ... don't like to be the source of constant disappointment. That's Aeron's job. I'm the good one, remember.

     Rat and rook engage in discussion of their own while Prince and Princess become increasingly entangled. Don't let them get undressed. Make sure she stays intact. Give them five more minutes, unless they start to - well, you know. At the talk of her husbands, that's really all it takes to get her ready to begin disappearing. She freezes as you start making mention of notes ... and of what they portend.
     I'm a terrible mother. I'm so sorry, Bran. Really. I - why do you listen to me at ALL?
     Below, Maria is kissing her newly obtained fiance for all she is worth, with all the fire and ardor that sixteen years can bring. Rats and ravens? No such thing.

     It will only make him miserable. He knows this. The rat and the raven know this. The stars, the wind, and in particular the dragons that embody this ship know this. And yet, does Gruffydd stop? Her tender lips are blushed and humming beneath his own. He nibbles, he nips, he suckles and sips. The kisses tangle, breaths stolen in the grasping of new love.

     Up above, a raven cocks his head and becomes the head-cocked prince that he is. Crimson eyebrows jut up at the tangling spectacle below. So, just kissing. No heavy petting? Not even a little? And they say I'm cruel. Ha! Bran glances over to you with a silent, shadowy smirk. Oh, she'll be intact alright. And they'll keep their clothes on. You can trust me to keep a sharp watch. Besides, it'll be fun. For me anyway.
     As to the girls, well. He looks to the lovers wrangling below, pursing his lips as his nephew begins assailing the girl's neck. I just wanted you to know that I wasn't a complete bastard. I've found the other five girls very upstanding men. None of them are going to a working house. They'll be married and well cared for. So. I just wanted you to know. You've been unhappy about it since i started collecting them at fifteen. I just don't want you to think that I am heartless. Well, completely heartless. I'm not going to be the romancing sort that whisks young things off to a marriage bed like Gruffydd down there. I'm not cut of that cloth. I'm not to wed either Innana or Drusilla, but I'll keep them in high style and plenty of comfort. Besides, Bran tilts his head to you in a very Davydd fashion, his sidelong smile streaking across his face with an inherited comet streak of wickedness, Drusilla has four hands. It's like having three girls for the price of two. What a bargain.
     From her neck to her mouth again, Maria is ravished as innocently as she may be. She is tasted, taken, held, caressed, and even rolled. Suddenly with the slow roll of the ocean, the kiss is slowed -- not stopped by any means. It is deepened as her mouth is slowly captured by the rolling of his tongue. It coils and flicks within his future lover's mouth, portending such things as she has only barely been told and has not yet begun to dream...
     Are you sure I can't let them get to third base? She's got a ring for heaven's sake...

     Just kissing. Nothing else. Rat becomes punk-rock, blue eyes blazing at crimson-haired prince from beneath a mop of magenta. He might cop a feel, but that's when you step in.
     She holds her position with the ease of youth augmented with magic. Fiona glowers at you, then looks down, expression softening with troubled edges. There are matches and there are matches. What I want for you is for you to be happy, Bran. I don't want you ever to think otherwise. You are my son and I love you dearly. She holds out a hand to you, then smiles, and the smile wobbles. I try not to control my children's lives. But I suppose I've failed you, at that. I am sorry, my son.
     Maria is gasping, hardly able to stay on her feet. She is overwhelmed, making soft sounds of encouragement as much as shock, her small hands touching Gruffydd's face again and again before sliding to shoulders, to chest, and returning.
     Third base only after she's officially been examined for intactness. Those are the rules.

     Bran chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze going to his latest charge. You couldn't have put them in better hands, funnily enough. He's a hawk, this raven of yours. You haven't failed me, mum. It was bound to happen eventually. Besides, I kept the best two. I mean, what's better than a kidnapped houri and the daughter of a Bedouin? They're good to me and I'm happier with them than not. Course, Iowerth still isn't talking to me. In fact, I think I might even have a warrant for my arrest if I show up in the Capitol.
     He waggles his eyebrows -- so like his father! He could be his Younger Self just now -- So you'll have to spell me when we get within eyeshot of the City. I'll be sure to call you when I can see the whites of the buildings. Now... go on... before the kings think I'm a shoddy messenger. I have this, mum.

     Below, Gruffydd parts the kiss to glance the warmth of his mouth against Maria's eyelids. He breathes quiet words to her, extemporaneous poetry. His face disappears into the feral darkness of her hair, his lips kidnapping an earlobe, suckling at it in between his murmured syllables. It is salacious, beautiful. The words, like hands, strip her bare.
     The crown prince lifts from her ear to look at her. It is a gaze that parts fabric, that imagines the white of her skin, the pink of her secreted flesh. His hands slide through her hair, brushing it back while simultaneously drawing her into him. And her mouth is parted widely to accept a consuming kiss.

     Ah, the moaning has started, Bran waxes long and low. He grins to you and winks. That's always my cue! Transforming back to a bird he dives upon the pair, settling on the neighboring cushion (Gruffydd's) and becoming himself once again. "Hello, nephew! Future niece," he hails them. "Look, I'm sure her throat is delicious, Gruffydd, but I'm afraid you're going to have to stop tasting her tonsils..." He glances up to his 'nainie' and winks to her. I'm evil baby.
     Clapping his hands together, Bran springs up. "So! I bet you're wondering...what the fuck is he doing here? Well, kids, I'm your new chaperone."

     The Moment interrupted, Gruffydd rolls over, flopping onto Maria's cushion and smirking (not happily) at his uncle. His uncle who's a year younger than he, he'd like to point out. "Is that so." Gruffydd seems doubtful. "If you don't mind, uncle, Princess Maria and I would like a bit of privacy..."

     "Oh! I'm sure you would..."

     Nainie, comes Gruffydd's plea. You can't be serious...

     She would argue, but there is no time. She lifts from her perch in the form of a kestrel hawk. I will be back, Gruffydd. He's not replacing me permanently, but something's come up that I need to deal with. And you know perfectly well why I can't leave you unsupervised...
     Fiona circles outwards from the ship, still within range with the wind through brown and gold feathers. Bran, don't be too evil. He's just a boy...

     Maria looks up, wide-eyed and dismayed. She lets out a startled squeak, then blushes, trying to hide behind Gruffydd. There's the sound of fabric shifting, and then she pops up next to Gruffydd's elbow, holding a knife in a throwing position. It takes that long for Bran's actual words to sink in. "Wait, what?"

     There is a grin as Bran is momentarily distracted. Don't you let him hear you say that. He is a year older than I am. He claps his hands together again and this time rubs them. "Sorry, sweetheart, yes. I fear it is true. My mother, Gruffydd's grandmother, has to report to the kings, her husbands. Something's come up. But worry not," he holds out his hands and grins, "I'm not going to be evil. In fact, you'll find me a bit ...well... forgiving is a word I'd use. Now, you both know the rules. She has to be able to wear a pure white dress for the wedding," he looks at Gruffydd pointedly. "And I'm here to ensure that happens. But you know... kiss her all you like. Just keep your drawers on."

     Still reclined on the cushion, Gruffydd glares up at his ...uncle. "I'm not a child, and I don't like being treated as one. Particularly by a younger relative... it's alright," he says quietly, turning to Maria. "Maria, this is my uncle Bran. This is one of the uncles I was telling you about. Bran, this is Maria. If you kidnap her, I will ensure that the sea swallows you whole." He says it so lightly, so blandly that it can only be construed as being deadly serious.

     "Now, nephew... I've kidnapped my last princess. For the time being. No worries. Let's not get snippy and pull rank." He looks to the knife-wielding princess. "It's a pleasure to meet you officially, Princess Maria. I know I seem a bit rude and strange, and Gruffydd's pissed he has a younger uncle as a babysitter. I understand all that. But... a deal's a deal. Once you're married, you can hate me all you want, just like all of the other female relatives. Until then," Bran smiles brilliantly, "I'm here as the protector of your virtue and honor." He bows. "And I hope to be your friend. Well, until you start hating me. So. Can we please put the negativity behind us? What say we have a drink?"

Posted by rowan at July 18, 2008 09:15 PM