A solitary figure wanders through Parisian streets, a velour bag tucked in at her waist. Drancy, bit by bit, unweaves the braids from her hair, sliding with careful, contemplative fingers, all the beads, the baubles and bangles and bells, free of her hair until it flows unhindered and silently. For whatever reason, noone seems to pay too much attention - just one more junkie, some presume, while others just don't notice.
It's not the first time she's been in Paris. It's something she'd forgotten to mention, because ... well, it's Paris, not France. Paris is an island unto itself, and never can be considered the same, in Drancy's world, as going to France. And now she turns her heels away from the airports and terminals and heads into the heart of the city, fumbling a set of keys from a pocket, up a flight of stairs in an old, well-kept maison behind decorative iron bars and brick walls, and to an apartment on the third floor of it.
Inheritance... to most of the world, it's a meaningless concept, something longed-for, but rarely more, in the grander sense of the term, than a few 'heirlooms' and keepsakes, memorabilia of the departed. In the world Drancy's turned her back on, it means more.
With a click of the lightswitch, the luxurious apartment's suddenly illumined, and as she closes the door behind her, she begins taking off her clothes, starting with her shoes and jacket and working her way from there. She crosses shined wooden floorboards in the living room, past the grand piano with the aged photos in their gilt frames, the fireplace with the slate hearth, past the dining nook with its ormolu and cherrywood furnishings, into the opulent bedroom, the canopied bed with the irish linens, the heavy velvet hangings, the thick pile carpeting, and goes into the large, open styled bathroom with its sunken marble tub and venetian tiles.
It's a transformation she does every year, in the spring, a reminder. "This is where I come from..." Her voice echos dimly as she speaks, before being cut off by the taps being turned on, the rush of water. The next three hours are spent in careful preparation, until she emerges once again, to select an outfit from the heavy wardrobe, wearing only thick terrycloth towel and robe.
It takes another two hours before the transformation is complete. Gracefully, she glides from the bedroom and back into the living room, garbed as if in new armour, from the skin outwards. Delicate crepe de chine, french silks and belgian lace next to her skin, where it cannot be seen - tailored skirt, slightly more than knee length, in a soft dove grey that is muted with faint blue undertones, legs clad in stockings and feet in elegant black heels... Ivory blouse that buttons up to her throat, with snug cuffs, every bit as tailored, and with a pretty ruffle down its front... pearl drops at her ears, one to each lobe, and no other jewelry visible, her long tresses coiffed and pinned in a seemingly simple twist atop her head... face painted, but delicately, almost invisibly, in the manner of a lady.
"I think I'm ready now... to do what I have to..." Drancy swallows once, nervously, wrapping the cord of the charm around her fingers and letting the talisman itself drop into her palm, and then conscientiously banishes any sign of nervousness or unseemly emotion. "Huw... Huw... Huw...?"
It was a lovely evening in East Chaos. The twelve-headed beast of Anxiety had had two of its heads cut off by a woman who conquered her fear of flying only to die in a plane crash. She beat the holy ... or in this case, unholy...shite out of him, sent the great beast whining to its abyss, and limped off to the Happy Hunting Grounds. Never piss off a woman of the Sioux Nation...
The rest of the whirling darkness, and it isn't so much darkness as it is an absence of light, was a bit temperate, really. Where geometric Realities and Plato's perfect forms usually get eaten by purple and green monstrosities, there was just a rippling. And I wandered the space between them, patrolling the very edge of Tir Na Nog, where the 'earth' really was flat and cut off abruptly where it ended.
I still had berries left over from Drancy's departure in the Yesterday, and made quick with a couple of mushrooms as well. Bit on the dry side, still... I was thankful for the relative quiet. It gave me a chance to wonder how she and Hwyll were doing and whether he had...
The vines of the earth and the trees of the earth spread and grew, sudden-like. And they all repeated the chant: Huw -- Huw -- Huw...
Bugger me, and it was such a lovely evening...
Your call pulled me from the earth, which is great really, as one misses most of chaos that way. And calm night or no, there's never a good night to be yanked through Chaos Proper. But the problem is, one never knows where one's going to come up. Outside? No problem. Who's going to notice a tree? Inside? Well, one hopes for potted plants. Otherwise, one is pulled through the structure of the building itself. And few people really comprehend how unpleasant, and uncomfortable, brick can be...
Huw...
Huw...
Huw...
On the edge of your third intonation of his name, while your breath is still hovering in the air, the cherrywood furniture gives birth to a fae of the earth. Huw materializes in one of the cherrywood chairs, looking momentarily dazed and surprised. And then, thankful. And then... really confused.
No one I know owns this nice a pad...
Brown eyes lift and their woody gaze flits about, searching for something familiar as he stands. He's dressed in his typical gear, ruddy-brown leather, brown and green wool cloak, fantastic leather and fur gloves. And his mahogany hair long and over his shoulders. But it's braided here and there, small braids, holding copper and bronze. Conducting metals of earth.
A catch of breath, so faint that it might not be noticed at all, really, and the Lady Fiona Rachel Arundel, only daughter to Lord James Avernum Arundel, the current Earl of that selfsame title, manages a careful welcoming smile to you. Do you recognize her, by those changeable eyes, which currently reflect the odd grey and blues of her skirt, stormswept skies in her eyes? Or perhaps by the long silky tresses, currently upswept to the top of her head, as she stands there, hands still wrapped round the charm's chain, the metal biting into her fingers? Or do you stand there, wondering at this stranger...
"Thank you for coming," her voice is quiet, sedate and meticulous, as she was taught to make it - proper deportment makes the lady, after all. And, "I do hope I haven't pulled you away from anything important, by asking you to come. You did say I should call you even if just to talk, and ... I hope that I am not imposing, by so doing."
Drancy - Fiona - takes a half of a step back, then, ankles made to look more graceful by the slender heels that raise her height an imposing three inches, nearing but by no means topping six feet, now. "Could I get you something to drink - some wine, perhaps? My aunt, whose place this was, always kept an excellent cellar, and one of the provisions of her will is such that I maintain it, and keep it well-stocked, through her usual vintner's. I'd be delighted to offer you such refreshment as she's provided." Her eyes flicker up and down over you, the mask of politely warm inquiry and welcome unchanging, for the moment.
He tries not to gawk. At you. At the surroundings. At you in the surroundings. And it makes him straighten, unconsciously, as if he suddenly remembered everything he heard in fae charm school. Like he has a book of elf poetry he's balancing on his head. He subconsciously checks his clothes, even. "Ah... oh!" Brown eyes flash and he removes his hand, sudden courtesy. "No, no ... you weren't interrupting anything. I was just thinking about dinner. And ..." he blinks. "... a drink would be great. You... this isn't London, is it?" I don't remember your apartment looking like this. "Have you been letting Hwyll redecorate?" he mutters, surprisingly. Huw pivots, looking this way and that way, and then at you.
"You look...quite lovely," Huw says. And why not. Other than he thinks you might kick him in the shins or the groin for noticing. And if you're really sharp, you might seem him recoil ever-so-slightly in reflex. "Ah...umm... so... you called? I... am here... I hope everything is ... okay?" Huw stuffs his gloves into his clothing, between leather doublet and leather breeches.
One hand lifts to cover her mouth, not quite hiding the smile that lifts the corners of her mouth, crinkles at the edges of her eyes, even as colour for a moment suffuses her cheeks. Even if she were inclined to assault you - and thus far, surprisingly, she doesn't seem so inclined - trying to kick someone in spike heels tends to be a bad idea.
"Thank you. No, this is Paris." She turns, heading into the dining area, and the kitchen beyond it. "And while we're here, I'm Fiona. Though if you tell Hwyll, or ... anyone, well." For a moment, a flare of temper shows, but it's wrestled down, and she glances over her shoulder, smiling graciously. "I'd really much prefer you didn't, if you wouldn't mind?"
On the table, there's a bottle of wine set, as per her instructions. She'd called ahead, to have the place opened up, and this was part of it... food and drink as suitable to the place, to her 'station', even if it chokes her.
I hope I know what I'm bloody doing... well, he hasn't burst into laughter, which is probably a good sign. Nor run away screaming...
"To be honest," she murmurs as she picks up the corkscrew, fitting it to the bottle's top, "I didn't call you here just to invite you to dinner, but to ... talk about a few things, if it's no huge imposition. - Is shiraz acceptable to your palate, by the way?"
It was a calm night in East Chaos, but it's an Unexpected Night in Wesern Europe. That's for certes. Huw makes a motion with his hand, as if to tell you not to worry about that. Mum's the word and all that. "Well, if I had known I'd be called into a great banquet and feast, in a lovely appointed room, and with a hostess of grace, charm and beauty," Huw bows, a graceful greeting. And one fitting a woman of your station.
And maybe you see... the behavior you give, is the behavior you receive....
Huw looks at himself, and out of his cloak he draws an impressive long bow. He sets it aside. The cloak comes off, heavy it rolls off his shoulders, and the quiver of arrows, multi-colored metal from all appearance. "I am glad I did not get to my berries and mushrooms," he says, and his eyes land here and there. But ... always they return to you.
"Oh, aye..." he murmurs. And he suspected it. "I thank you, and... am happy to answer whatever I may. Shiraz?" He doesn't know what that is apparently, but he smiles, holding out his hands. "I have never met a wine I didn't like."
Without the cloak, he looks a bit more modern. More like a goth, than a punk. With a medieval flair. But not entirely archaic. He feels a bit better. "And Hwyll'll hear nothing from me," Huw mutters. "I don't owe him the pleasure of a secret, Fiona." And that name lilts off the fairy tongue like it was part of his own language. And maybe it is...
It's hard for her to play the part she's playing, in some ways. In others, it's as easy as saying her name... She was born to this, after all. Even if she's run from it hard and fast and far, with both feet and all her weight, until she's bruised and bloodied, on the inside if not the out...
"Please, do make yourself at home. I would like for my guests to feel comfortable." Carefully, she pours red wine into the delicate wineglasses, filling them to their middles before stepping back to set the bottle down. "Dinner will be a little sparse, I'm afraid - normally, when I am in residence, I do no entertaining, and rarely stay for longer than a week."
Long enough to remember where she comes from, and remember the choice she's made...
It's wholly unmagical, as she begins carrying the food from kitchen to table with careful, dainty movements. A salad of chopped dandelion greens, sweet pickled carrots, and red grated radishes first, followed by a bowl containing fettucini in a cream sauce, with flecks of basil - a platter containing cutlets of lamb, garnished with spearmint, a platter of asparagus, and a bowl of glazed rolls. She adds another bottle of wine to the table, and brings plates and silverware - real silver, and not new - to it, with crisp linen napkins.
"Eat as much as you like - whatever isn't eaten will only end up thrown away, after all." Fiona manages a smile, lifting the wine now that it's had a chance to breathe, and carries a glass over to you, cheeks slightly flushed with colour. "We can ... discuss things, whenever you wish."
I do not know what to say to this, for I have never met this person. I have met the wild chaotic child of Eastcheap, not the orderly and stately Miss Paris. It automatically puts me on my Best Behavior. A hand runs through the hair, shoulders straighten, hands smoothen over clothes. I am as well-apportioned as I'm going to be, wild man of the woods.
He, the face in the trees...
He, the tangle of roots hiding a secret spring...
You set the table brilliantly, the wine, the food. He moves forward and he looks at his hands instantly. Checking cleanliness -- well, it'll do. Huw comes to the table. "I didn't know you came to France, you are from here is that so?" Small-talk. Huw catches himself, reddens, clears his throat and takes the wine you offer, and -- quickly -- a swallow of it. Well, you know what I mean. "I can eat a lot," he murmurs, grinning quicksilver, changing the subject as quickly. "Do not worry. This is a feast fit for a fae, true, but being so I can take it..." Eyes leave you, skirt to the table, and then back to you. "Discourse over dinner...?" mahogany eyebrows quirk upward. Huw gestures to the table, turning half-host himself.
"Nice wine," he remarks. "It has... spice to it. Pepper..."
"I'm glad you like it - I do hope you'll enjoy the food." She smiles slightly as she again returns to the table. "No, I'm from England, but my aunt owned this place, and - for whatever reason - she left it to me, when she died..."
She pulls a seat back for herself, and settles onto it far more daintily than you'd ever think Drancy capable of - no sprawl, no slouch, nothing obscene about it. Surprising that she's capable of it, maybe. She moves her chair in, and spreads the snowy linen onto her lap, helping herself to small - ladylike - amounts of salad and meat, bread and asparagus, foregoing the pasta altogether.
"So..." This is the hard part. How do I say this, what do I say?
Almost, she fumbles with her silverware, but covers it by setting it down for a moment, steeling herself with a briefly noticable flinch. "I asked you to come because I owe you rather a large apology."
You beat him to the quick. He was in motion to pull out your chair, or at least...that was the intent...but then you set yourself down. He at least has the opportunity to stand until you are seated, which he does. Did you know he was half as mannerly as this? And it doesn't come natural. There's an artifice to it. But still... his heart's in the right place.
For the second time this evening, he has to keep from gawking, and also manages not to spit up his wine or choke on it. And he hides that behind settling in his chair and setting the wine glass aside. His eyebrows quirk up and he smiles, "Apologize? For what?" And he really doesn't know. For almost kicking me in the 'nads? For almost kicking me in the shins? From elbowing me as I picked you up? From turning me down when I offered to teach you but running off with a Air Fairy, who's a colossal tart?
He doesn't interrupt you further. Obviously, you have something you feel strongly about. And besides, maybe if you apologize, he'll remember what he was supposed to have been offended by. Earnestly, he looks across the table to you, but his expression isn't hard or joking or maligning or so incredulous as to piss you off. A hand reaches for the glass, his eyes go with it... to make sure he doesn't fumble it...
Well, some habits do die harder than others, and if she didn't seat herself 51 weeks out of the year, she'd be waiting long enough to grow moss. One hand lifts to push hair away from her face, and ends up skimming against a blushing cheek instead. She manages to make all these mannerly things look natural, but underneath, there's an impatience, a frustration that's being kept tightly leashed - but is, nonetheless, there.
Letting her hand fall, Drancy curls it around the stem of her glass before answering, eyes lowered to the red of the wine. "A better question might be what I shouldn't be apologizing for." A tendril of bitterness for a moment is audible, before her voice smooths out again.
"I ... did wrong you, rather more than not. You were trying to help me, and ... I was so wrapped up in myself, that I didn't pay attention, and treated you rather badly." Stormy grey eyes lift, and she continues as smoothly and lightly as if at some tea party.
"I know you might find it difficult to believe. I ... suppose Hwyll told you everything?" Her chin cants upwards, but she can't maintain eye contact for long, her gaze slanting away uncomfortably. Shields up, prepare for enemy offensive.
"Well, I was the one who transformed into a cat, cased your apartment, ate your food, slept on your pillows and turned you into a pebble and carted you off to a foreign Non-Shore in a strange Non-Material reality. You had every right to be upset..." Even if I were saving your life. That's hardly an excuse. Huw lifts the wine and he takes a swallow of it.
"But... I appreciate it... we ... did not have a good beginning. When I turned myself into a cat," he says, looking to you directly, "...it was only because I thought I was out of options. That, and I didn't want to get arrested. Iron bars and all. And Hwyll hasn't really told me anything...." Like what? I'm almost afraid to ask. Huw sets his wine down and begins serving you first, and then filling his own plate. Small portions. For a man his size, you'd think he'd eat more. Davydd certainly does. Even though he doesn't need to. "I don't spend much time with the Blowhard," he adds softly. Then winces a bit at his lack of manners, "I mean, he and I do not have the chance to discourse much, as I am often out of Tir Na Nog. We do not meet much, the West Wind and I..."
That prompts a sudden cough, as she chokes back a laugh that threatens to be a most unladylike snort. Oh, that definitely fits in with her own experiences with Hwyll...
"Even so... it's not easy for me to apologize, and we both know it won't last, so please, accept it while I can still manage it?" The corners of her mouth quirk up for a brief moment. She's not eating much at all, just sipping her wine from time to time. "I hope I at least made you a comfortable cat. Even if you didn't care for the liver treats." Hwyll has a big mouth.
Setting her glass down, she props her chin on her hands with a slight toss of her head, still avoiding looking at you. "I... am facing up to a lot of hard truths, is all. And trying to figure out if my life is a mistake, before I make any more of them. It'd be easier if he'd told you..."
"I accept your apology," Huw says, lifting his glass, "...and offer my own, and an upraised glass to ... better beginnings." A nod and a swallow of wine seals it. Huw hasn't started picking at his food yet, but he's thinking about it. His left hand has started to toy with the utensil. He laughs, and it makes a broad smile, crinkled eyes and a bright and handsome face. "Well... you know... I'm more partial to salmon. A little confession? When you weren't there, I would change back and eat potato crisps and cheesy poofs," so that's where they went. It wasn't Dot afterall.
Wine goes to his left hand and his right hand takes up a fork, making for the salad. He is quiet, he looks to you as you speak. Hard truths. Well, you've had a bit of a crazy couple of months, have you not. "Whatever you told him, he held in confidence. It... can happen with Hwyll. Not frequently, but it can happen. Perhaps he is just distracted by the miracles of television, and hasn't gotten around to it." He pauses to eat. There's a sound in his throat and he gestures to the salad. Good. "I do not need to know the particular truth, to understand and to sympathize with your journey, D... Fiona," he says softly. Huw seems open, genuine. Interested. "Facing hard truths is the... stuff of Existence. It is the journey itself. Coming to know the Self cannot be done if Truth is not faced. I... am proud of you for taking note of it. It is not an easy thing. What you have seen and done over the past ... little while," however long it's been, "... or now..." Huw grins again. "I was a pretty comfortable cat. You treated me well."
The world was on fire
Noone could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you...
Words go over her head for a moment, as she stops to stare. She's unaware of doing it, then shakes herself out of it, looking away again. "Well... at least now I don't have to beat the shite out of Dot," she mutters, in a more 'usual' fashion, then colours. "Uhh. Pardon me, please."
Picking up knife and fork again, she rearranges asparagus stalks, finally popping a bite into her mouth and chewing on it delicately. Buying time. She swallows, washes it down with a sip of wine, then finally speaks, a shift in topic for the moment, or at least, so it seems at first.
"I spent the night in someone's castle, a couple of nights ago, and it ... made me think, the entire thing, about what I'm doing." Being half-seduced by a Plantagenet, and finding herself wanting to be seduced... "And, of course, I've had a lot to think about, anyway - with demons and 'Oak Kings' and you and Hwyll, and, well, everything, popping out of nowhere at me."
And, all of a sudden, she blushes...
The smile is quick and easy. Of course. He doesn't say it, but it's there. He eats as you speak but he keeps his eyes on you. A little of the salad. A little of the asparagus. He picks at it, smirks, then eats again. Odd little vegetable. Tasty though. And it's devoured, partially politely -- his table manners aren't bad all in all, but have to be recalled. It's not natural.
A castle. Really? People still live in those? "You have had a lot to digest," a grin, "...and I do not mean this food, it's good by the way," that in softer aside. "It is not every day that one gets pulled into the Extraordinary."
And then you blush. You've been doing that a lot...
Huw looks to his plate and then to you, straightening. He's so calm. He's just so bloody calm. But then... earth is, isn't it? Rocks are calm. "It's not everyone who could handle it... and ... look at you. You've done well, and no thanks to the Blowhard," call a spade a spade, right? "So...what did sleeping in a castle teach you?" He leans in, avid to hear it. His mind is quick and keen, and he not one half so flighty as your new roommate. "You've had... an epiphany..."
Oak Kings, spirits, demons, magicians and vampires. If only you knew half the stories of those that have surrounded you since you first touched that tree. Does it make you never want to touch a tree again?
Keep talking, maybe it'll get easier. Just ... keep talking, keep telling him about it, it's got to get easier...
It's not like she's good at confiding in people. Even Dot doesn't know what happened, what it was that made her rebel against the 'good life'. And having told it once, does it get easier? Or is it harder... especially in light of other things?
"I... I'll give you the condensed, sound bite version, if you've no objections. You'd need to know, I guess, but I don't really want to go into a pity party, either."
Lifting her glass to her lips, she finishes the wine in it, as for courage as much as thirst. "When I was still in school, I made an ... error in judgement. I went round with a fellow who didn't care two pins for me, but wanted to get his hands on my term paper, for his and his real girlfriend's use. I found out when I overheard them." So simple, when condensed. Her eyes for a moment take a glassy shine to them, but she manages to keep her voice and face completely bland, innocently bereft of emotional expression.
"That is more or less when I decided that the life my parents were preparing me for was inefficient and undesirable, as was the entire notion of pairing off for intimate relationships. In short, why I am, fiftyone weeks out of the year, Drancy instead of Lady Fiona of Arundel."
Did you know, or had you guessed? Quickly, she puts her emptied glass down, rising to her feet and turning, to keep the illusion of calm and control, before that bright sheen to her eyes can spill out. "I'll just ... take my plate away. I'll be back in a moment."
He had not known. He had not guessed...
"Trust... is not an error in judgement," he softly confides, and his hands are full or he would reach across the table. It is not your fault. How could you have known? We must place trust in the words of others. Trust that there is a universe. Trust that any of this matters. We are all held pendulous upon the breath of that Trust. That is why giving one's heart or one's word is so important. It is why one must not break one's word. A part of the universe is shaken by that.
As you rise, so does Huw. It seems out of courtesy. But it is also out of concern. But he doesn't change himself into some inanimate or animate object to stop you. He merely seems to stand... and to be finished with his dinner. "Lady Fiona," he calls, "... you are strong and you are brave, and if I may say so, are a woman who should not sacrifice her life because some bugger and bastard wounded the Trust she had given him." And he'll stand by that statement.
Even if it does cost him a few bruises to his shins. Just so long as she aims away from the belt region...
Huw doesn't try to stop you more than this. He does not want to embarrass you. "But you know," he continues gently, "... it's not a fancy apartment or sparkly silverware that makes a worthy life. I think you've found that secret out, Lady." A little smile. "You know... there is more to Everything than most anyone knows. He may have broken your Trust then, but you are stronger Now. You can take it back." And take back whatever Life you want to live. "To not love because of him, just lets him win." Open your heart...
That's the secret...
Her composure, what little was left of it, crumbles like sand which water pours into, grief rising into her expression and making her still as a stone, even as her hands lift to her face. Her excuse was incomplete, as she'd forgotten her plate anyway.
Don't look at me... I can't stand it if you see me like this...
It's unspoken, as she hunches her shoulders, a little duck to her head as she again tries to swallow the sea. She gasps for air as she struggles with it. "Even if it's you?" Oh, she had no intention of saying that aloud...
Me?
She must be joking, well... I know she's not joking, she's crying. And you should really do something about that, Huw...
Your eyes are hidden, you miss the reappearance of the fae tracker right in front of you, complete with hankerchiefs, if you need one. He has several, take your pick. There's pink and yellow and sage green...
But while his left hand holds them, his right hand goes to touch your face, his own face tilting to look at you. "Even if it's me," he whispers. I heard you, I'm sorry. "And I'm flattered, Lady Arundel...with the oak blonde hair and the bells that chime as she walks. The news does not displease me," his archaic way of accepting the notion. If, that is... it wasn't a hypothetical.
That'd be embarrassing...
A duality of existence makes this even harder, and tears stream unbidden down her face, making a wreckage of her carefully applied makeup. This isn't the reason why Drancy doesn't tend to go in for it, but it's not a bad reason in and of itself...
"Don't, please, not unless you mean it..." It's a distorted little cry - she's fighting hard for control over herself, and it's nearly impossible to call back the flood, words having been spoken into an unforgiving breach between either Drancy or Fiona, and the lack of repression it implies. And, after all, she can't believe it easily...
Wherever I run or fly, hop or crawl, there I am, staring myself smack in the face ...
How easy would it have been for Isabel to have slid into control, if she had in truth the confidence she exudes, behind her armoured shell? She accepts a handkerchief blindly, swaying on her feet.
"I can't take another direct hit," she adds frankly, and it's much more Drancy than any highborn 'lady', even with eyes awash in tears. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to dump all this on you, I just..."
She starts to turn away, resolutely, resisting temptation as always, rather than giving in to the rather feminine little urge to hurl herself at you. Saint Joan, riding through the dark...
The lives of saints are all rather dreadfully unhappy and, more often than not, rather wretchedly painful. Course, he's never met a saint, but he can imagine it what with all the stories he's heard. Others have more direct understanding. But even St. Joan dropped her banner...
"You're not ...dumping it," as if he's not familiar with that phrase, "...on me. And ... I mean what I say. I'm not just saying it. That's the Blowhard's job, not mine. I'm a bit ... more stodgy and resolute, and therefore a good deal more stubborn and willful, that's why we get on as well as we do. And... you know... it has been a while since I have cared for anyone at all." He holds out another hankie to you. "I won't lie to you and tell you I love you. I won't be insincere. But, truthfully I can say I'm interested in you." A pause and he places his hand upon your hair. "I wouldn't have offered to teach you," or started to, or did he even say it aloud? "... if I weren't interested in being around you...you know how much I'd have to be around you if I were teaching you, oes?" he whispers, and he smiles. And he leans in, hand parting the veil of the hankerchief...
And he kisses you...
Ain't that just the living end?
It's not like kissing a Demon Prince of Lust, you don't feel your insides going smoky. And you're not selling your soul at the altar of some undead prince, or even a fairy prince for that matter. It is, however, tinged with magic. Something that sparkles on the blood. Maybe kissing the Dragon would be that way -- you'll never know, but maybe you imagined it. Maybe it was something like this. Warm. Pulling. Tasting of honey and wine and rowanberries. And then it's over.
Well, doesn't that just tear it...
Dazedly, her fingers close around the handkerchief, tears stopped even if standing still, transparent liquid crystals stuck on eyelashes and cheeks, lips still parted, eyes startled. There's definitely an element of deer in headlights to her expression, almost comically so.
"I..." She doesn't really know what to say, so she slowly lifts the handkerchief to her face, scrubbing away the tears, makeup with it. Next time, maybe she should consider waterproof.
A long pause, awkward at least on her end - nine or ten years of repressed emotions and hormones don't make it any easier. "Um. I'm ... I don't really know what to say, now," she admits, and she's not quite Drancy, and not quite Fiona, falling somewhere in between the two, swaying again. A little exasperated look crosses her face, and she wiggles out of her heels, shrinking three inches in a moment.
Green-grey eyes, now, look up at you, a bit wonderingly, even as an edge of embarassment and self-consciousness knifes its way into her - for this moment, at least, she's left without pretense or artifice. "So ... what happens now?" She takes a very small step forward, not quite leaning in, but ... she trusts you, and for this brief time, she is as open as you've ever seen her, without shields and barriers to get in the way and clutter up her face, with polish or with rage. She looks ...
Faintly astonished, and more than a little vulnerable, almost scared. Drancy... timid.
The hankerchiefs turn into flowers once you're done with them and Huw lifts eyebrows both. In deadpan softness, he murmurs, "How about some dessert?"
Well, you'll have to get used to that sort of thing if you're going to be living with fae, or if not living with then spending a good deal of time with at least. But there are complexities upon complexities to this sort of arrangement. Like aging. Like being on the physical plane. And what to do when you're one place and he's the other.
But the charm was a first step, make no mistake...
Huw smiles. It's a reassuring look, or at least it's meant to be. Hard to know how it comes out with that face. His hand lies upon your face, lightly. "One thing at a time, right?" Fingers run over your oak-blonde hair and he smiles. Isabel, will you want to kill me for encouraging your daughter? Or will you be happy for her, and so long as it goes well and goes as it should, maybe be a little happy for me?
It was a calm evening in Chaos. I should have known something else was coming...
Posted by rowan at May 31, 2003 10:13 PM
