As big as it is, Powis Castle is becoming intimate once more. All that's left are a couple of cousins, and your husbands two and children three.

     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.

     "When do you get started? Right after Yule? Father Christmas Strikes Back?" Davydd cackles at that and reaches for his whisky. That was so good, he has to drink to it.

     "Oes," he grunts softly. "I feel like I've been in a wine press. Run through the wringer like an old rag."

     "His family here has grown, but the family he has had for the last six centuries is struggling, Fiona. We are... I am," he counters, "... grappling with trying to understand why. Why .. in that moment... he sacrificed one for the other."

     It was good that they removed themselves. The energy was stifling between them, despite their good intentions. What they needed, what they always need to clear the air, was a battle.

     "So...does he still want to kill me?"
     "He doesn't want to bake you a cake," William chuckles.

     "Before you answer, you do know that happiness is not guaranteed just because you want him to be happy. I want him to be happy, and my other boys. You, of course. But while we can all sit around wanting everyone else to be happy, Life has its own rhythm. Things will come and go, including joy."

     Iowerth's eyebrows quirk up a little at the casual mention of his mother's nipples at the dinner table, but such is the conversation of new parents. "I'm starting to feel a little faint," he drolls. "Is this what I'm in for then?"

     "I was angry. I swam out to sea. I became ...the dragon I am and opened my mouth for a great roar. I swallowed the pirates whole and coughed up treasure for about four hours. My throat is still sore. But.... it is what it is."

     He hangs his head with a moment of exhaled resignation, then sits back. "Not the birds and the bees speech, I hope," he murmurs and he smiles a little. No, he knows what is coming. For weeks, he's been preparing himself.

     His hand had already fallen away. If it hadn't, it would now. You receive an astonished green-eyed stare. He doesn't move; not even to drop his jaw. You're kidding, right?

     Davydd barks a laugh again, "Me? Nervous about kissing the bride at the altar as she announces she's taking me as well? Nah. Besides, it's my ruddy house," he wears a look of mock-indignance. "To hell with what they think. They don't like it, they can leave. Just means more food for me."

     He may go incandescent if he continues to redden. But perhaps that is a sign he's well-fed for a change. "You think I'm overreacting." A question as well as a statement. "It didn't strike you as... a bit odd? I mean, take out the part that he's from my own loins, which makes this whole thing strange enough for me... but I was just...on him. You don't find that peculiar?"

     At your mention of calling someone, the door flies open, steam pouring out and green eyes sparkle in the hot fog. "Fucking hell, no. I don't want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to finish my shower, fucking go shoot someone or start a war or sommat manly activity."

     I love the rebel in you. I should kiss you now, my rebel queen. But before Lord Arundel can think that Davydd is forgoing his dinner to eat his daughter with his eyes (if nothing else), Davydd looks to Fiona's father and takes a bit of the salmon and asparagus. "That is one of the many reasons we love your daughter. It's never a dull day with Fiona Arundel. Another scotch?" he offers.

     "You know, it's one thing to have doubt in your children and the world they face," Davydd looks to his hands, and then to you. Your looks are sharp; his are blunt as Welsh oaks. "It's another to wish ill on what they do. Who they love. She's marrying well. She seems happy. He's a good man. What else could you possibly ever want for her? Your job is done, it was done well. Mostly, that happens despite our best efforts."

     You are feeling her... aren't you... her memories, the things she felt and saw. He looks to the plaque, to his words there. To the woman who is truly only memory now. He expects only the jewelry he buried with her remains. Perhaps, even those diamonds have let go of this earth...

     Inside, there are hundreds if not thousands of tiny glass spiders swirling across every surface. When the door opens, they begin to immediately skitter towards the mirror, pushing through the glassy surface and vanishing.

     "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..."

     A single starling lifts from his rest, a single starling takes to the wing, a single starling flies to an open window. The herald, the totem of the Holly King...

     It was some time after nightfall when the heavens opened wide and all of God's little fat angels -- sort of like Bwci and Rhyddid with wings -- stood at the edges of the firmament and dropped buckets over Wales, with the valleys of Powys catching the lion's share, or cherub's share, of the deluge.

     Either she's just randomly telling people, or she seems to think that at least you'll maybe have some clue or sympathy or something as to what's going on. Being nearly as strange as the rest of the people she's met around here if nothing else, "I think he might be even more daft than me."

     The dog's come into sight, two rolling cannonballs of fur and tongues and ears and wide grins, and just two moments behind them is a man reminiscent of Davydd, where he not a bit more golden-haired and an inch shorter and a bit broader. If Davydd's a welsh mountain, then Kelly Morgan's a boulder...

     "As for the curse - at its heart, what it means is you can't go out during the day. That's fine, I never was much of a one for a tan myself - how is it, really, any different from finding out you're a vegan, or allergic to penicillin? It's magic, not science - but it's you."

"They love all night and with the dawn,
the lady wakes and her Davy is gone
What a fool she's been to have tagged along
And be known as the Black Jack's Lady..."

     "I don't think I gave you permission to be in my country," comes the rush of amused Welsh, the low and long vowels, the tripping of a lilting consonant, the trill of 'Rs', "... on national Welsh TV no less, high and mighty we are, speaking the language of the Blessed on the Island of the Mighty..."

     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.

     It's an echo that quivers, but an echo - caught in the stones, as it were, as if a shell being lifted to one's ear, miles and miles from the shore.

     And even in his Holly Winter, when the Oak King himself is most prone to Banality, to the disillusionment that can come so easily from so modern a world, he is radiant.

     "'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.

     I hope this letter finds you well and will find you in Trallwm for my visitation. I am very much looking forward to having the opportunity again to speak with you. The Sisterhood wishes me to convey their greetings, their esteem and their hope that you will join us.

     The image is alive. Flowers bloom in the subtle turns of the colours, glowing as a translucent layer over the surface. The castle glows, imbued with life and magic.

     Davydd ap Owain, the Oak King himself, is for all intents and purposes as regular as the next man in Wales wandering through his yards in rubberboots, a slicker, with a shovel, followed by two very fat and very happy Welsh corgis.

     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.

     And then from shadows, Davydd comes, popping air punctuated by the march of the Cymri. His aura could light half of Welshpool. If you view it, ever, but certainly now, it'd fill the aviary full of bright white light. And in it, swimming, dragons of blue light in nine locations.

     "I've seen your flag on the marble arch
     love is not a victory march
     Its a cold and its a broken hallelujah..."

     "I don't know," Sandrine smiles, her blue eyes glinting dampness. It's not sadness; her demeanor says otherwise. Perhaps its the cool evenings and crisp air. "I think...everyone looked happy. Are we happy, Davydd?"

     There is a chuckle as you mention Sandrine pruning your plants. "Well, it could have been worse." Glancing to you, she murmurs quietly, "How will you tell her? How do you think she will take it..." ...take us?