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.

     "Consider this your invitation," he says after a moment. "When you're ready to join me out here," his gaze trails across to the wide horizon of Infinity, "...you will. When you are meant to. It will be good... not to walk the shadows alone."

     "...I know what it is to suffer and to search for meaning. You want to know who you are... you wish to know why what happened to you happened. A reason, an understanding. Don't give up,"

     His hand cups your face. "The best antidotes for ghosts is illumination," Agapios murmurs, his fingers stroking your cheek. "They cannot abide the clear light of examination. And so... we will vanquish her. I am confident of this."

     "When the time has come for me to empty myself of all of my tales, I swear to you, good gentlemen, that your stories shall not remain untold."

     "Oh oes, about the king. He was belched on shore, entangled in the lettuce of the sea and pushed up by the waves onto the sand. Well, he was lucky he came in with the evening tide, or he would have burned up for certain."

     "Both of your children are healthy. And growing." Both. Two. "As befits a queen with two husbands, you are having two children. Two boys. An heir, my lady, for each king. Because you cannot choose between them, your heart a matter of loving two equally, now you do not have to choose."

     "...Does brotherhood end... does love end... when it is needed most? Or does it in such trial confirm its rightness?" William takes a breath, then his undecided look returns. "Am I a fool for caring, Ian..."

     As he stared into the distance past his own window, to the accompaniment of his queen's own pleasured sighs and moans, his visions stretched as a vista before him. Those god-given visions, and others more faint, just the impressions of things to come, things taking shape. Coins borne forward by cresting waves now become the ships that come in, loaded with rich and promising cargo.

     It hurts to talk. It hurts worse to think. A bloodied hand moves from his hair and braces the bowl. But there's no twisting toward it, no groan, no muttered Welsh curse or wracking of his body in nauseated discomfort. Davydd opens his eyes to the sound of water. "My head is on fire..."

     Do old piers dream? Do they stand in murky water pondering the past days, of clippers and caravels and boxes, ropes and men? With feet at the edge of the pier, Davydd ap Owain reaches into the darkness with his left hand, sinister fingers plucking at the air, and it pulls elastic in his grasp like the skin of a balloon.

     "I have recalled myself to the Hunt in honour of my cousin, Isabel the Fair, the Queen of the Seven Towers. She has departed this world most unkindly, her death hastened by the malice and planning of others. With me go my brothers; the Wild Hunt shall ride no more."

     Think not of what cannot be done
     Think not of what cannot come to pass
     For none of those things exist
     On earth, in dreams, or in the highest heaven

     And then, almost as an afterthought, there is a thought to Huw... Heard much of my valor? What did you tell him, about my trying to break Davydd's nose?

     "...It is time for Avalon to return to those who need it most. This body is theirs, I give it to them. With it my soul. With it, my being. For this land and I are indivisible. I am Avalon..."

     "Drop your robe," the Welsh is deep, earthy, sensual and soft. "When the Maiden stood before Death," his mouth threatens a smile, "...she begged for her life..."

     "...Without Life, Death has no meaning. Without Death, Life has no lure..."

Once upon a time, in a far-off kingdom (isn't that how all the best fairy tales are supposed to begin?) there lived a lord and his lady.

     ...Where once there were oak trees, holly trees sprout suddenly upon the earth both wide and tall. Branches spring with taloned, evergreen leaves, and the forms of living dragons surround the roots and trunks, etched even into the skin of the trees. Same as he.

     The woods shivered with a large wind (me) and we stood upon fertile ground of a different ... View of Wales, Cymru. The red-towered castle still there, still symbolic, flowers and green grass everywhere. And there he was, the Oak King himself, bending to kiss the slip of a girl....

     "When I saw him, he promised me pay in exchange for trumpeting the end of his Exile. The Oak King's exile is at an end, Your Majesty, Your Highness; three years in Cymru, and at the end, he has emerged."

     So many seasons ago, almost to the day -- it will be to the day, when the feast occurs -- that Tybalt lost himself to the Queen of Summer's charms. Lost himself in a way that no one would ever wish for themselves.

     His words are sing-song power, and here that power is everywhere. As the myths say: the land is the king, the king is the land. Red-blushed and golden apples grow, dip delicately from blossom and fruit-heavy branches as you sail by.

     He crowned you and you crown him, a mutual coronation, and two kingdoms fall to a hush for it, like a awed crowd.

     In the drawing itself, there's a little shape. Not unlike a small hunchbacked man hiding behind the stone and peeking around with a little winsome grin. Though not so very defined. When the flashes of glamour come through, however, it's nearly blinding.

     "'Ello luv!" comes that high pitch voice, almost lecherous in it's intent. Perched atop your easel in a feat of balance that should be impossible, is a small old man that could not be more than four feet tall, and most likely a few full inches less than that.

     The Welsh country side is always such a contrast. Lush green country side surrendering to dreary grey skies at the horizon. It is against this somber backdrop that a crumbling old castle rises up from the emerald green hills.

     He skips, almost, happy in this atmosphere. There is a glamour to the air, a scent of wonder that draws people like this man. Tibalt. Never ask him his full titles, he'll lie for hours.

     At the water's edge, she stands, looking out into the distance. A breeze has stirred up, casting long strands of hair about her, licking at her form like flames. She, who was there so long ago at his making, is one of two left of three.

     "I don't mind being asked, but unless there is going to be some sort of action, I really must insist that you make up your mind. I was in the middle of a dinner party. Do you know how long it takes to have a white dragon actually answer an RSVP? No, I should think not.

     "Holy shit," Davydd thinks to say, and his hand comes up and rubs his unbearded chin. "I see what you mean. Not saying you look bad, you're just very..... puckish. Huh."

     His eyes are almond shaped, slightly slanted, and dark. A shade deeper than night. And he stands some seven feet tall one's eyes may think. In vestments made of shadows and earth, fur. Fox, both grey and red. Wolf at the edges of his cloak. There are talismans of fairy metal, and of claw and tooth and bone.

     "Thank you, O Shiva," the naga whispers, his dark. Only when he thinks he is out of sight, only when he may barely see you between the wide leaves of the mangrove, does he whisper adoration. My love, whom I have so wronged.

     There is something... a sound... like wind in the leaves. Perhaps the hissing of a serpent. Laughter? "Joy and sadness..." The consonants linger. "Well, musician, if you can bring true pleasure to Misfortune Himself, then I will grant you the wish of one secret's revelation..."

     The wind moves through my Most Beloved. Through the cavernous holes I have created, whispering. Through the great leaves, through the canopy that hides the sky. That hides the stars from my eyes. Issuing, ten-thousand scratches upon the soft bark of my mangrove tree, I mark my way even as I make my way. Slow, upward for another evening. Unseen in the branches, though a living city. The hotel windows nearby, clear views of the garden. But the tree, O my Most Beloved, is a protective tangle.

     While your little feet sounded out the measure of your steps until they ended...well, wherever you stopped... the cherub -- for that's what he is -- quickly closed his eyes. Not attuned to you, he knows nothing about you, nor can he grasp who... or better yet what... you may be, little girl who moves quick like swallow. But he can, and therefore does, trace his Master's sigil on the nearest wall. Finger dragging the stucco and plaster in quick calligraphic swirls. "Just in case," he whispers to the stucco there...

     With every muscle's motion, no matter how slight, they seem to shift. Celtic, the patterns of interlocking, eternal lines that become the interlocking forms of Celtic dragons. Cobalt. Blue royal. Deep and brilliant. Bright. Brighter than they should be...

     Falling water. It chimes to the senses. He can hear the voices in the water. Soft and lilting, like the sound of his own singing. He can feel the water by the coolness of the air as he passes. He can taste it, as scent captures flavor and spills it upon his tongue.

     Wrists turn down instinctively as Sakir notes Edward's gaze. A touch of alarm on his features. "I --" He faulters for a second with the language "-- would enjoy that yes." He then slowly begins to stand, at least to make introductions, while one hand remains on his glass. "Sakir Akalay." Left hand offered to shake. "And I thank you for your offer, though I already have a drink." Strange how fast he changes from faultering over a language to seeming perfect fluency. It must have been surprise.

     I am standing in the exact center of the world. Between Life and Death. Between the Mundane and the Extraordinary. It is not easy.