The sun's down and been down for a good couple of hours by now, since final farewells-for-now and lingering kisses and touches followed by abrupt partings. Fiona's gone and had a shower, dragging fingers through the long, tangled tresses of oak-blonde hair. There was a thought for cutting it again, but she isn't feeling all that extreme; she just wants to be ... comfortable ...
She barely even glances at the contents of her closets. It's getting ridiculous, really; when did she become such a clotheshorse? But now she seems to need new clothes every time she opens her eyes, like some sort of fashion mogul. And, lacking the millions of dollars (yet) that the fashion world would dictate she spend to keep on top that way, she takes to magic instead, painting an outfit onto herself - drawing on air that solidifies as she does so, from the skin outwards.
Downstairs, in front of Pashmina's, this time of night it's easy to find a cab. She hails one as just another passenger, clad in an outfit that wouldn't draw any raised eyebrows at a Clannad concert - Indian cotton white blouse, just a little too large for her and making her seem a little ethereal, her figure shadowy through the thin material, paired with black leggings and black boots. Her hair's braided but as she promised Davydd, not pinned up with the combs; it's a simple, albeit heavy braid, allowed to hang free to the backs of her knees. She's got her leather jacket with her - just in case, as the weather could turn - and a rather plain carryall in navy blue. The real accents of colour and attention are the dangling emerald earrings, and the ring on her finger...
She turns up at Davy's like this, but she isn't colorless in expression; quiet, perhaps. Contemplative, even. But there's no sign of tears, nor of particular unhappiness - or its opposite. She is in repose...
Maybe she intends to sing...
It's a rather sedate night for Davy's, all things considered. It's not standing room only, though the bar is crowded. There are a few tables empty even. It's an old timer's night, a night where only the most regular of regulars are in attendance. Nothing like a Wednesday through Saturday night, where you can't get a word in edge-wise or don't want to talk over the music...
Kelly's bar-tending tonight and he's in his usual gear of jeans and t-shirt, both of which are dark and set off the red-gold color of his hair. He's tapping a Guinness right now, you can tell by the way his hands are moving. Hands you know, but don't know. For you know the man beneath them, but Kelly as Kelly hasn't so much laid a single hair of his finger on you. He is both familiar and strange, along with being strangely familiar.
The swell and fall of conversations creates a kind of sea, and the waitresses on the bill tonight bob up and down like ships, their lifted trays the sails that bring them forth and firth. One of them, Clarinda, greets you with a smile. You've become a fixture here and word's getting around that you're seeing the owner. The service has gone from good to phenomenal.
Kelly looks up at the sound of the door closing, looks up as he hands the drink and takes the money, the tip tossed in the tip jar. He smiles at you, "Noswaith dda," he grins, hands resting on the bar.
Well, you survived to tell the tale, but what sort of tale shall it be?
Nothing quite like being the owner's bird to get you on good terms with the hired help, isn't there? Fiona moves up to the bar with a faint smile to you, propping her elbows on the bar. "And to you, Kelly. Could I get a cider, please?" How trivial. How commonplace. But at the same time, not entirely discouraging.
After all, if she's drinking cider, it can't have gone that badly, can it...
There's smiles given in greeting, this way and that, hand with ring on it visible to any that choose to see. She's not ashamed, after all - quite the opposite, even if now she's got to get used to Davydd not being around to cringe (and how quickly she got accustomed to him being round again - but that's another story). Both hands, then, on the bar as she leans, fingers brought together.
I still love you. Fiona brings things round to what she suspects might be the best thing to say first, to get it out of the way. We're still getting married. And I don't think Davydd is going to try to kill you.
"You bet, dearie," he croons out. A cider is soon on tap, a brand from Ireland and the finest in the bar. He looks from you to the tap, tilting his head as he does so. He's such a bruiser in this form, your Other Man. I still love you, too. Even if he were on the way to come and kill me. He smiles and hands you the cider. He smiles to see you, all of you, and the ring brings a certain something to his smile.
"So what're you on for this evening," genial chit-chat as he holds a separate conversation altogether. Good... so... it went ... okay then? About as well as it could? Kelly wipes the counter down and tosses the towel back over his broad shoulder, made to seem more broad for the tightness of that shirt.
If he comes, he comes. But if he hasn't been here by now, he probably won't, love. You okay? "I was thinking, it's quiet enough, maybe we could go catch a show or sommat, dinner if you haven't had it. Or maybe a coffee at the Abbey. They're open late in the summers. Good coffee that."
She takes a pull at the cider, thirstily, with a certain need. God, that's good. Not as good as the cider she's got sitting in waiting for her birthday, but good nonetheless. "Thanks, this probably saves my life," Fiona remarks easily, making the talk the way anyone else might. It's with a shrug of her shoulders; she's quiet, still.
He's still a bit hurting, but he blames himself for much of it. We talked about it a fair bit, but not exhaustively - he wanted to compare notes. I told him I haven't taken a PDA and measuring tape into bed with either of you, and that got him off that track for a bit, at least. Fiona can see the humour in it, even if she's still a little exasperated. You both are just too damned possessive for your own good, in some ways. He says you can 'have' me for Christmas, but he wants Yule and Halloween. I'd already promised him Halloween anyway, so I hope you don't mind.
"Not up to much," she manages to say aloud. That internal conversation's a bit tricky, and she hasn't had as much practice at this as you have; her distraction is likely evident, even if most can't quite place the why of it. "Coffee sounds ... mm, I don't know. Not really in the mood much for the Abbey. But I don't mind going someplace, sure. Nowhere too ... noisy."
There's enough noise in her own head...
I'm okay, yeah. Just ... thinking, I suppose. A little tired. I still have a lot to do, and - well, while it went pretty well, all in all, I wouldn't say it was easy for any of us.
I certainly wouldn't say that, that it was easy. He says nothing to possession, but picks up the other thread of conversation. "Well, no to the Abbey then. How about we start in the apartment, we'll sort it out there." The towel comes down upon the surface of the bar and he motions for one of the girls.
"You feel fine with tapping, Clarinda?"
"Oh! Sure!" She says brightly, her gold curls bouncing with a quick nod. "If it gets wild, I'll holler for help, but doesn't look like it'll be from the look of it... hello," she says to you as she comes behind the bar.
"Fair enough," he turns to Clarinda, smiling. "I'll just be upstairs. Not sure if we'll be going out or not," you've just been outed as his woman -- we'll, he says, we'll! "But if we do, I'll be sure to call up Llew and see if he can spot in if need be."
Kelly comes round the bar. Come on now, we'll go upstairs and I'll rub your feet and we'll have a chat about it, maybe I'll order in. His hand lands on your hair, and he bends to give you a greeting kiss. Next, his hand comes out for you to take, gallant that he is.
We both want what we want. Unfortunately, we both want the same thing. You. If only you weren't so damned attractive... come to think of it, it's all your fault really. The tease of his voice within you is like the tickle of his fingers at your waist. "I'll put a kettle on," Kelly says, leading you with him toward the apartment.
I don't mind, love. I'll have every other day of the year. Why should I be a pill about it. Christmas is good, I'm glad for that. I think you'd look quite smart with tinsel around your wrists and ankles...
Clarinda is offered a smile, though she's still pretty quiet about it all. "Sure, we can start upstairs." Fiona takes hold of her cider as she rises, apparently not too concerned about the outing - either the outing as in going out or the outing of her as your woman. "Sorry for the trouble." How very terribly English.
Fiona leans up to return the kiss, keeping it brief and respectable - you're in public, after all. I'm alright, really. Just a bit tired - but not physically tired, I don't know how to describe it. She takes hold of your hand, moving with you towards the steps. As for what you both want, I fail to see how it's /my/ responsibility that you have similar tastes.
Alright, so she's never too tired for a snappy retort. She doesn't lean much, right now, just a slight tilt towards you as she climbs with a sigh; blue eyes snap wide for a moment as she reddens a little. Bastard. I've something in mind for Christmas, and it doesn't involve bed. Well. Not just bed, anyway.
Who said anything about bed? Can't a man mention decorating without it being overtly sexual? He can't even finish that sentence without laughing. I'll leave the planning to you. I will have to start gift buying soon. Just to have time to fit it all in. So. Kelly looks to you as he leads you to the back stair, giving you himself to lean on all you like. His arm surrounds you. We'll talk about Christmas in October.
He pauses at the foot of the stairs, turning toward you and taking your hands in his. He rubs your ring finger, the emerald stone glinting brightly in the light as he moves it. "Tired?" he wonders. He doesn't ask why. He doesn't walk in Davydd's footsteps there. "Drained, more like," he says after, his hand lifting and stroking against your face. He tilts your chin up, bringing your mouth to his for another brief kiss.
"I love you, and it'll sort out in the end. Hmm? The three of us. I wouldn't worry about it now. It sounds as if it went well enough. Certainly better than I thought it would..." Kelly turns to walk you up the stairs.
"Christmas comes soon enough," Fiona agrees aloud, and now she does lean, now that she's not in front of a crowd of strangers and acquaintances. She can't close her eyes here, but she wants to - there has been too much Fate moving through things, and now she's worn thin with it, like newsprint.
You turn her towards you, and she allows it, sighing as you touch her cheek. "I love you too," she murmurs against your mouth, turning as well to head up the stairs. "It's just complicated. But yes, he took it fairly well. He knows I love him and that you're not his replacement - and one of the first things he did ask was if I was using you to substitute for him, so I would say that he cares very genuinely for your well-being as well."
The door is opened with a flair and he holds it open for you, a flourish of a bow, very courtly circa 18th Century, and he rises with a wink. "You know, I've no intention on ...sweating the small stuff?" You follow? "The way to survive this sort of ... agreement is to know how to," his hand makes a rapier motion in midair as he tosses his keys on the kitchen counter, "... pick one's battles..."
"How about some wine?" he offers, it's not really a question as he takes out two glasses and a bottle of French red. "Here, a bottle of fine cabernet. It's from Chinon, you should like it." Rhodri begins to uncork it. The passing moments pass in silence. Only the popping of the cork makes a sound. Wine pools darkly in the glass bowls and only then does Rhodri look to you, startling eyes like your ring. Just like your ring.
"It's a man's pride. He doesn't have anything to worry about, and he'll realize that as soon as he goes and conquers something. It's just the way of it. He has to be the star, the king. It's his nature. He's dramatic, outlandish and incredibly, secretly sensitive. I've never seen a man so capable of great swaths of emotion as he. I've seen him mercilessly beset an army. I've seen him fall to his knees and weep over a crushed daisy. He's glorious, no matter what he does. He can't help that."
Rhodri offers the glass to you, coming up to you, his other hand brushing against your hair. "Christmas comes very soon," he smiles. "Time will start passing like clouds." A hand to your chin, he tilts your face upward for a kiss. "A queen, adored by two noblemen. I cherish you, and I wouldn't be surprised if he starts cherishing you a bit more...obviously. Now that he knows how he really feels. It takes ... defeat? If you will, to bring it home to him."
She walks in with a brief straightening of her shoulders, running her braid through her hands like a length of rope. It unravels as she does so, flowing in the faintly wrinkled way that braided locks do, swaying as she moves. "I'm not too upset. A little, yes - but mostly it's as you say, I'm drained. But that comes with the territory, too - you're both temperamental Welsh gits, and I'm just an Englishwoman, what do you expect?"
She smiles slightly at the wine as it's offered her, hand coming up to take the glass, azure attention on your emerald eyes. "I've seen his sensitivity before. It ... I know it's probably not true, but I feel my way around with him. He is always so astonished whenever I try to do anything nice for him that it makes me uncomfortably wonder about his past," Fiona admits frankly, brushing her lips from yours to your cheek and then stepping back to take a sip of the wine. Chinon. It's worth smiling over, remembering things... "I try not to compare things too much. What would be the point? He's over eight hundred, you're over five hundred. You'll both have had enough women in your pasts to stock chorus lines and brothels from here to Singapore - I mean, even if each of you only had one woman a month for that time, that's..."
She frowns. She actually feels the urge to pause and do the math, it seems. "Let's see - twelve months in the year, times eight for him is ninety-six, times a hundred - so nine thousand, six hundred for him and five for you - six thousand for you. And that's if you limited yourselves to one woman a month, though allowing for dry spells of monogamy and the like." From the momentary look on her face, it's plain she's never done the math before.
"As I was saying," Fiona clears her throat, moving to sit down, "I don't see much point in comparing myself to women either of you have had in the past. It's not a competition I could win; memories are just that, memories. What matters is now and the future. He's sensitive, yes, and that's why I've been so worried about him in all of this - but I don't think we can go assuming his reactions. He doesn't like competition." She shrugs a little bit, sketching a gesture. "He may find ... he prefers a situation where he can possess solely, even if without the burden of reciprocation."
"He thrives on competition. Why do you think he and William are so close? But you're right about the tempermentality of the...mountain sort," he chuckles at that. And he makes a face -- perhaps he shouldn't have said anything about William, but in a magical universe there are ways to ...explain that as well. Without saying more than one should about things one shouldn't know.
"And part of the problem is," a pause for a sip, "...he becomes competitive about the Imaginary. He sets up rivals. I don't think he understands a reality without rivalry. Easy to understand if you know his past. He was the youngest of three brothers, with a younger sister, Catherine. He began fighting his own brothers -- Rhodri," a bit of a smile for that, "...and Hwyel," not all that unlike Hwyll, "... at fifteen. He killed his brother Hwyel with Rhodri's help. And he and the Normans crushed Rhodri afterwards so that he would be sole prince of the Welsh -- but under the auspices of King Henry."
He takes another swallow of the wine and sets the glass down. "He had four children, two sons, two daughters and a Spanish wife he had to ferry back to Spain once his slain brother's children became old enough to give him trouble. It's a story sadly repeated in Welsh history. I believe it was Rhodri's children that gave rise to Llywelyn Fawr, the great Welsh prince of the 1200s. Davydd's reign ended not at the hands of his brother's children but at the hands of a dark... immortal force called Mithras."
The Persian deity?
"It was Mithras' Curse that he lives under even to this day. He doesn't understand anything but competition. He just ... suffers from a great amount of male pride and an inferiority complex." Rhodri shrugs a little. "I've watched him for years. I've seen the patterns. I know when to jump on...or off... a moving circle by now. He'll be fine. And who knows what he may find. He may find that it suits him, he may ask to battle me for your hand, who knows. What I do know," he leans toward you, "...is that we shouldn't worry about it until then, Fiona."
"I'm not going to be able to entirely not-worry, but I'm not going to let it slow me down. I have too much of my own stuff to do; he may have the image of me doing nothing more than laying my head in your lap with obvious consequences, but the fact of the matter is, I am actually rather occupied," Fiona notes, taking up her glass and looking into the surface of the wine. "It's funny you mention William, though. I once spent the night at Chinon, you know. After shoving a wardrobe in front of the door."
Just in case...
One hand comes up and out, though she's listened closely to all of these historical details; interesting to her, and not something Davydd's told her. The blue eyes are alert, taking things in. "My life must seem very commonplace - well, my past," Fiona amends, "to the two of you. I was born; I went to school. I got interested in music and riding and dance and singing and all the other things, right on schedule, I spent summers in France and Belgium with my father's sister and my mother's parents, and when I was old enough I went to a good school with a board of governors and more or less drifted through with only minimal attention given by the older girls. And when I finished the basic forms I went on to the rest, as you know, until I ran away. Nothing odd ever happened, really, or not noticeably odd, until France, and that was an isolated incident - then nothing happened, really, until I met Davydd and all hell broke loose."
The wine is brought into play again, and she leans back, stretching her neck back and closing her eyes as she relaxes a few small degrees. "So how did Davydd come to fall afoul of Babylonian entities? And I hope you two don't try to kill each other. I'll be very angry with you both if you do."
"It sounds like a good life to me," Rhodri notes quietly, taking another swallow of wine and then setting the glass down. "But as you say, it's becoming more...interesting, as time moves on." He smiles a little. "The... Babylonian entity," he lifts his emerald gaze to you, "...held sway over this island, so I understand from Davydd, until he tried to ... change Davydd, to alter him. He didn't realize that Davydd was already immortal, already chosen by that time. He was never seen again. But likewise, Davydd was never the same again."
There's a quirk of an eyebrow at the mention of William and of you in his house. "Did you also nail it shut?" he wonders with a wandering smile. "William is... of Mithras' sort, but was never in league with him. In fact, as Davydd tells it, William was Mithras' first choice," wait, that would make William ancient, "... but he was by happenstance in the holy land with his brother Richard the Lionhearted." Rhodri looks to you for a long while. "And you can never let on to William that you know, or he will kill you for the knowing of it. I, on the other hand, think you should have the fullest picture of your other spouse. Without naming other names. But Davydd's story is impossible to tell without William's. And William's also cannot be told without the story of Davydd and Davydd's sister."
Rhodri stops there, bombshell dropped, and he takes a long swallow of wine. "I don't want to fight him. I don't expect we shall. Or at least only in the theoretical, metaphorical fashion, with the changing of the seasons..."
One hand is held up; time, need time to absorb this. And wine. The rest of the glass is consumed in a long, long draught until there's nothing left, not even dregs (not that modern wine is so crass as to have dregs as formerly known), the glass held to tongue-tip to catch anything that clings. Then the glass is set down with infinite care lest it shatter. "So you mean to tell me... no, of course you do. And there's no real reason why it wouldn't be true. If you're five hundred and Davydd is eight hundred, a Welsh king and a Welsh prince not to mention all the fairyland and Avalon and the rest, there's absolutely no reason why William couldn't be - so THAT'S why he said about us being related - more."
The glass is picked up again and thrust in your direction. This is going to take a little bit to fully absorb. Alcohol can only help.
While she passes her glass to you, she takes time to work things out. The entire matter of William? Shelved for a moment while she tends to the stuff she can halfway wrap her mind around. "I won't tell him. Hell, I don't intend to tell him anything about myself, why would I start telling him things I know about him? I just every now and again send him a batch of fudge when I make it. I think under the circumstances I won't stop. It might upset him, and from what you say, I'd really rather not have Richard the Lionheart's baby brother angry with me." Fiona clears her throat again, kicking off her shoes and curling up with one foot under her. "I don't know what Davydd will do. He was feeling sorry for himself but seemed a little better once he left - once he stopped trying to get me to compare the two of you. How I could, I don't know."
He pours another glass of wine for you. The two of you will finish the bottle and perhaps another before the night is out. He brings your second glass to you, his glass refreshed as well. "Now you know why everyone under the sun was warning you away from him. This is not to say that William is evil; he is not... well... not completely. No more than any other Norman duke of the 12th Century. He is the son of Eleanor of Aquitaine. He exudes danger. But I've seen him do amazing things, heroic things, good things. Many good things, in fact."
Rhodri takes a seat on the sofa, bottle of wine set on the table, his glass in turn. "William was his father's agent to Wales, sent there to put down the rebellion of brothers and end the civil war. He did. He and Davydd fought one another. Even Davydd, with all of his magic, could not defeat the Normans. He erected forests; William burned them down. In a draw, they met to finish Rhodri off, seal the deal that would make Davydd king of Wales. His sister Catherine was married to William. They are brothers by marriage, they are brothers by war, and they are brothers in blood. But they will always be in apposition to one another. Bloodlessly, now. At least I hope it will remain that way. But the rivalry, even in humor, is always there. At least from Davydd. William, for his part and to his credit, does not take part in it apart from banter. He simply loves Davydd. There is nothing, I think, that he would not do for him."
Rhodri turns toward you, arm on the back of the sofa, head resting on his hand. Reminiscent for a moment, that position. "Davydd... Davydd is a self-punisher, Fiona. Perhaps it is out of guilt, I don't know. That he doesn't believe he is worthy for any grace he has ever received. Or love, for that matter. He hasn't suffered from a broken heart. He's just a very aged soul, who thinks, perhaps, that his sins are far greater than his benedictions. He's spent so much of his existence alone that I'm not sure he knows what it's like to spend it with someone else. So... when his woman," a smile to you, "...says she has another, even if he asked her to, would just confirm that for him, internally. I am hopeful that he knows the difference and understands the truth. Not that you love him, but that he is worthy of love and adoration."
"I hope that he knows it. I have seen him punish himself. I recognize it in part because there are aspects of it in myself, as I'm sure you're aware." Fiona accepts the glass anew, gaze moved with strong emotion. "Anyway, I never really wanted much to do with William. It was obvious he was rich and powerful and dangerous, but he was also married, which to me meant he'd be off limits anyway - and then I saw him naked and uh, no. Just ... sorry, but no." She winces at the very idea, then laughs. It needs a little laughter.
The laugh dies away, the smile with it. "I'll give him time to come to terms with things, but I'm not going to let him slip away silently or quietly or, really, at all," Fiona states it, calmly but with a purposefulness that is unmistakable. "If he chooses to go - elsewhere, I don't have much I can do about it. But it will be something that he will have to decide to do, and to do. I won't brook long silences in that guilty vein, where he doesn't hear from me and won't call me so instead tortures himself by thinking I don't need him any longer and will stop loving him. The truth is that I love you both, and I need you both, and the two of you make me feel whole. When I first had him as mine - and myself as his - it was ... good, but incomplete. I mean - look at me."
How is she now, from how she was...
"It makes perfect sense to me. The Holly King is half of the year; the Oak King the other. That you would have two husbands shouldn't be a shocker. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Davydd can't be both. No man can. For a time, a long time, he tried, and I think it quite nearly finished him. If you had not come along, who knows where he would have ended up. And me with him."
He laughs shortly, a wicked grin slanting at the mention of William naked. "I hear that he wasn't even the largest of his brothers. There were rumors, if I understand my history and understanding of Angevin dukes, that all of them were likewise... gifted. So to speak. Confused with their horses." Marriage -- he speaks not to that. Or of the one to whom he's mated.
He exhales and his wicked smile tempers. "I hope he does not punish himself so strongly as to retreat altogether. Just as I hope he comes to me and speaks to me about this work of his, among other things. I should make the first move, perhaps, but I do not want to make it worse on him by doing so. So, for now, I will wait for him to move. If he does not after a time, I will do so..."
"Thank you, I prefer not to rival the English Channel down there," Fiona answers dryly. The idea of anyone larger than William makes her shudder with something quite different from curiosity. "I'll stick with Welshmen and their red hair and moody habits. Not that you've been terribly moody - just persistent." She lifts her glass in a sketch of salute to you, acknowledgment for battle won...
She takes a sip of wine this time rather than a swallow, meditating upon things. "He and I confronted each other - Davydd and I - over my own blood, in a way. We recognized each other but like the stubborn souls we are, we had to fight against that recognition. And even once we did recognize it, it took time to figure out what it meant and what to do about it. I think this might make things plain to him now. I hope so. It pains me to see him struggling like this."
One hand comes up to toss a stray and wandering lock of hair back behind herself irascibly, and Fiona continues. "If he doesn't - one of us will. For now, though, it takes time and patience on our part, to see what he does. Shall we move on to what we /can/ do something about?"
"I'm not sure that's a compliment," he chuckles, "...but I'll take it anyway. And I'm not that moody," he notes, "... I probably have my moments, same as anyone. I'm just not that ...extreme about it. Not tied to the cycles of the moon. I have a ...sunnier disposition."
Rhodri finishes his second glass of wine and sets the empty glass aside. He'll leave it for now. Now, he is busy looking at you with mild puzzlement and warm interest. "And what would that be?" comes the leading tone to his deep voice. Hear that? That's the sound of Rhodri's mind rolling straight down the gutter...
It earns you a look, though it softens at the end with a smile. "Bastard," Fiona murmurs absently, taking a healthy swallow for distraction's sake. "Not what you're thinking. Not that I mind how you think, but we still have other things to discuss before you sweep me off my feet again." Now she finishes her glass, setting it down resolutely. "Maybe we should order dinner first..."
But no, no harm in bringing it forward before ordering - discussions can take place during and after and between, as so many discussions with you seem to. "There's a little matter of my parents," Fiona clarifies, "and of you meeting them - and of wedding planning." Her hands come up, one finger tapping the ring she wears. Your ring. "I hope you haven't forgotten?"
"Forgotten what?" he deadpans as he rises. There's that grin again, that wink, that flourish of a rapier-bearing noble thief as he rises, bows and heads for the phone. "I'm looking forward to meeting your parents. I love petty aristocracy," how lightly that trips off his tongue. "They have the best of everything..."
"The best jewels..."
"The best horses..."
"The most beautiful, eager daughters..."
Emerald eyes sweep over to you as he lilts that out so matter-of-factly, bringing the phone and a selection of menus with him to the sofa. Very eager, comes the thought beneath your skin as he stands there and smiles at you. "I don't get to play the lord much these days," he notes. "I love being charming and noblesse oblige."
"You also love getting under my skin," Fiona mutters, almost more to herself than to you. "Here, let me see those." She moves to follow with almost a reluctance for a moment, sulking for the moment - but she follows all the same. She settles onto the sofa, reaching across you to grab at the menus.
"What's the difference between petty aristocracy and non-petty aristocracy, anyway? And I need to inform my parents that I'm marrying you, so ... I suppose I need to know what name, exactly, you'll be going by; age, where we met, all that sort of stuff." She frowns, then shrugs, leaning against your shoulder with a sigh. "Are the family's jewels going to be safe from you, Rhodri, or should I see if I can talk daddy into moving them into the bank..."
"I recommend a vault in Switzerland. I don't like it there. It's too cold." He hands the menus over with a grin and then hands you the phone. "My treat. Order what you like. I'll take two of whatever you're having."
The couch sounds as he takes a seat. "Petty aristocracy is like... new money. New and fresh," he murrs with a thief's lust. No different from talking about a beautiful woman's breasts, that sound in his throat. "Old or well-heeled aristocracy doesn't have any money," he points out with a chuckle. "They have the name, and that's about it. Give me new rich any day. They like to show what they have. It saves me some work."
Rhodri's already leaning away from the hand he knows is coming out, chuckling in advance. "But I wouldn't dream of biting the hand that feeds me, love, so don't worry. Why steal from you when I can just fuck you silly and marry into it." As if he needs the money. He does take delight in the subject. "I'd rather be between your thighs than beneath your skin, but I'll take what I can get."
"As for ...what to tell them, fortunately we don't have to stray too far from the truth. On paper, you have two choices, Kelly Morgan, entrepreneur merchant class. Or, Rhodri ap Gwynedd, hereditary Earl of Snowdon, not currently sitting in lords as the title is out on loan to provide funds for the upkeep of Powis Castle and other titles and holdings. I prefer Rhodri ap Gwynedd, Earl of Snowdon, myself. Kelly's a cover, I'd rather he stay that way."
"Oh, well. You've just described my mother. She's petty enough." Queenliness has not reconciled her to her mother just yet. Perhaps nothing ever will. Fiona reaches further for the menus, scowling and batting at your chest. "Our family was fairly penniless, but father had goals and ideas. That's why he married mother - she had the money, or rather, my grandparents did. Oldest daughter, first married, but the last of her brothers and sisters to have a child. I rather suspect I was part of the deal where my grandparents were concerned, but noone talks to me about it; I only know what I've overheard."
Finally, she gives up on reaching and pulls herself onto your lap with a defiant glare leveled at you from almost nose to nose. "Rhodri ap Gwynedd's more likely to be acceptable to my family and their entire set, anyway. And to my grandparents, admittedly. Zaida and grandmother are amazing, really." There's genuine warmth and respect in Fiona's voice as she mentions them. "I love daddy, even if we don't always see eye to eye, but I adore zaida and grandmum. I learned to cook from her, you know."
"I look forward to meeting the clan," he says it like he means it, straight-forward and with a coupling nod. "So we'll go with Rhodri ap Gwynedd. He's reputedly reclusive but gives large gifts to charity. He stays out of the party circuits and quietly does extraordinary things for Welsh families. He is altruistic," he smiles, "...and humble in his dealings."
As you climb onto his lap, he smiles broadly, taking a moment to enjoy it. All of it. And to let you see how well he enjoys it. Defiant glare and all. "They'll make us sleep in separate beds, I suppose. We'll have to have secret trysts in the halls at night, meet in clandestine gardens," he teases a kiss, a brush of his lips that never quite lands, "...and look innocent over breakfast tea."
Rhodri surrounds you with his arms and lets a kiss land...at your chin. "Nothing appeals to you, love?" he says to the forgotten menus. "How about Italian, hmm? I could do with Italian. I'll have Clarinda or one of the girls go pick it up. How tacky," he grins wide at that as he bounces you on his lap a bit.
"When do you want to go? I imagine they're getting curious about your situation. I can take whatever time is needed, whenever it is required or wished..."
"Mother will insist on it, just to make me squirm and probably to try making me look bad in front of you," Fiona predicts darkly. "Grandmum ... grandmum's different, but you won't be meeting them at the same time. They live in Belgium and they don't often come across. They're quite old, you know."
She growls as you tease with the kiss, then sighs as your kiss goes to her chin instead of her lips. "You," Fiona declares, "are such a git tonight! Italian's fine. It's food, isn't it? Just make sure there's enough for midnight supper as well." She lets her cheek brush against your shoulder. "Tacky? Having your employees run out for your supper? Yes, I suppose."
She twists round in your lap, moving to straddle your thighs with a toss of her hair as her hands go to your shoulders, blue eyes fierce with the impression of heat. "Mm, well, seeing as last they knew I was engaged to someone named Davydd, I suppose that it depends how much warning we give. They're in town this season - daddy's been called up for a special session. I could call now, if you want, and arrange for dinner with them this weekend?"
"Sure," he grins at the tossing of hair. And he settles back on the sofa as if to watch you dance for him. You know he'd like it by that look. By any look. He reaches for the phone. A number is dialed, a speed-dial to downstairs. "Rhonda... Kelly, here... look, do me a favor, will you? Could you call diDanova's... order up two pasta specials, marinara, and a linguine alfredo? Have them deliver it to the door here and I'll come get it. Ah, you're an angel straight from heaven, you are. Aye, bread would be good. And two desserts... tiramisu...diolch, darlin'. Oh sure," he grins to you, "...give a call when it gets in..."
Yes, she asked if he'd like to be "warned" when the delivery arrives. You know, in case he's... busy...
Rhodri sets the phone aside and his hands curve under you, balancing you on his lap, slipping around and between clothed thighs as those eyes glint. "I'll lie," he notes with eyebrows sweeping upward. "My middle name. You would call me that to annoy me. God knows they'd believe that. Sure, call them." He hands you the phone, his hands returning to your body after the phone is deposited to your care.
"Don't mind me," he murmurs, tilting his head as he leans forward, mouth finding your neck. "I'll be here, quiet as a mouse..." He gives you something to consider. A kiss both suddenly wild and all consuming, ending with a tug of teeth upon blushing skin. Then he sits back, hands going behind his head as he smiles.
Bastard...
"Sure," he grins at the tossing of hair. And he settles back on the sofa as if to watch you dance for him. You know he'd like it by that look. By any look. He reaches for the phone. A number is dialed, a speed-dial to downstairs. "Rhonda... Kelly, here... look, do me a favor, will you? Could you call diDanova's... order up two pasta specials, marinara, and a linguine alfredo? Have them deliver it to the door here and I'll come get it. Ah, you're an angel straight from heaven, you are. Aye, bread would be good. And two desserts... tiramisu...diolch, darlin'. Oh sure," he grins to you, "...give a call when it gets in..."
Yes, she asked if he'd like to be "warned" when the delivery arrives. You know, in case he's... busy...
Rhodri sets the phone aside and his hands curve under you, balancing you on his lap, slipping around and between clothed thighs as those eyes glint. "I'll lie," he notes with eyebrows sweeping upward. "My middle name. You would call me that to annoy me. God knows they'd believe that. Sure, call them." He hands you the phone, his hands returning to your body after the phone is deposited to your care.
"Don't mind me," he murmurs, tilting his head as he leans forward, mouth finding your neck. "I'll be here, quiet as a mouse..." He gives you something to consider. A kiss both suddenly wild and all consuming, ending with a tug of teeth upon blushing skin. Then he sits back, hands going behind his head as he smiles.
Bastard...
"That's true, they would believe that." Fiona frowns at you a bit, suspicious all of a sudden. "Hm. Paying for me I don't mind, but this ordering for me... I don't know. Alright - there's still the matter of what you look like as your ever-so-noble self. I'd like to know before I'm confronted with you in front of my parents." She takes the phone more or less unthinkingly, as people do when something is handed them, then belatedly realizes her mistake.
She's just freed up your hands, after all...
"Quiet as a -" It ends in a gasp that turns into a slight moan. So susceptible is she; she ends up curling in your lap, twisting so she isn't straddling anymore, bottom with a thump to one of your broad thighs as her cheek goes to your collar.
"You expect me to call my mother while you do things to me? I think I'd better go to the other side of the room to make this call," Fiona murmurs, beginning to slide with a bit of reluctance off of you. "Glad I didn't wear a skirt..."
"That brings up a good and valid point," Rhodri promptly takes up the whole of the sofa as you move off of him, "...you really need to wear more skirts. I like them short, kilt skirts are just dandy. It just makes things simpler, really. That, and you have nice legs. I'd like to see them occasionally."
That's one thing he and his dad share -- plenty of advice on how you should dress and wear your hair. Men.
As you move to make said call, he lets a few years settle on him. It's a light touch, nothing incredibly obvious. Simply slightly past thirty rather than so obviously twenty-five. His hair is short, nicely and neatly cut, very GQ UK. There is an exactness to his features, rather than a softening, with feigned age. Small nose, high cheekbones, the bare suggestion of lines at the corners of his eyes. His clothing is very fine, a nice suit, but more country gentleman than business man.
How like his father he seems just now, the resemblance only increasing with Time's imagined steps...
"How's this," he wonders. "He's handsome, single, though he's had his turn with some fashionable It girls of London Society from time to time."
"You know, I'm going to get a complex. If you two don't like the way I dress despite having fallen in love with me with the choices I've been making..." Fiona moves across to the other side of the room, more as if to make a point than because she thinks it's going to make a damned bit of difference; her opinion is signaled in every twitch of her hips and in her stiff-legged gait.
There's a glance at the phone - it's not her phone, the numbers aren't all programmed in where she expects them to be, then a glance back over at you. And she pauses. "Oh, my," Fiona murmurs. Oh, she likes it. It glimmers in her eyes. "Have to wonder why someone taking turns with fashionable It girls would go after me, but suit yourself. Still need to figure out how we met." How do paths cross, when there isn't a Davydd in the picture...
She turns away again, tacka-tacking the number in, lifting it to her ear, letting it ring. Pause. "Hello? Yes, mother. Yes. No. No, I won't - look, do you want to know why I called or not? Well, actually, that's why." The voice on the other end is a bit sharp, bordering on shrill, and as it goes on, the tension in her shoulders increases, the scowl on her face growing blacker by the moment. "Ugh. Look, is daddy there?"
"Because you're it," he whispers while you're dialing. Rhodri ap Gwynedd (for Davydd ap Owain is the son of Owain ap Gwynedd) rises in his suit with the light sweater beneath it, the nice shoes, very well put together, as you begin to speak...is that speaking?... with your mother. Grinning, he pours the remainder of the wine, filling two glasses half way and going to the kitchen with the empty to get reinforcements.
We met as most people do... at work. You worked on a show that would put you in contact with all sorts of influential and fashionable people, for a very showy network, not to mention your work with 'M'. We met at a function, you were going to do a spot on the interior of Powis when ...whatever happened with that job anyway?
Rhodri opens his wine cabinet unit and tilts his head, looking for the next victim... bottle... victim. He turns his head, looking to you with a slanting smile as you run foul of your mother in the first five minutes. Ain't she a peach?
I got fired for doing that thing with the Beeb. The lawyers sorted it all out between them, but bang went the job. One shoulder lifts and then drops, Fiona's attention more on navigating the minefield that is maternal conversation. "No. Look, mother, at the rate you're going you're not going to meet my fiance until the wedding, and I might not invite you, so just give me to daddy!"
Ah, nothing like threats. The voice on the other end rises to a squawk, then dies away, and Fiona sighs. Here we go. "Hello, daddy? Yes, I know I've upset my mother and that you've got to deal with it, but you've got five bedrooms in that place, what difference does it make if you spend another night 'on the couch'? It's me she's mad at, not you, so don't intercede and it should be fine. Yes, she'll run down in time, just like a clock. I could look into getting you knockout drops? Who? Oh, for her, of course."
She runs a hand over herself, a knowing glance at you, and her clothing changes. Instead of the outfit she'd been wearing, now it's one that's just a bit too short and a bit too small - white middy blouse threatening to pop the top buttons, navy plaid skirt that flashes a bit of white cotton under it when she turns, navy blazer with gold seal on the pocket tossed over one shoulder - white knee-socks and polished black shoes and a black hairband pushing the long tresses back.
Well, now you know why Paul didn't object too much to faking the dating. She winks at you, then turns back to her conversation. "Yes, I called about seeing you and mother this weekend. Your place. Dinner. Bringing my fiance."
The wine cork pops right on schedule and Rhodri grins, head tilting now to take that ...vision of you in. Yes...just like that. The rest he keeps to himself for the time being, your being on the phone with your parents. He pours two glasses of wine, a bit more full this time and leaves one for you.
The jacket comes off and is set on a dining room chair, leaving the outfit even more fashionable with its removal. Who would know that he is covered in moving tattoos with such a look as that. A slender, thieving hand comes out to take his glass and with it he wanders to his window, standing at it and taking a moment for the view of London outside.
"Six o'clock? Okay. We'll be there at six. Try to get a muzzle for mother. Yes, daddy, of course I'm kidding." Fiona rolls her eyes; she's not, really, and her father's got her number. "Okay. I love you too, daddy. I'll try not to get in any trouble, yes. What's that? Father!" Abruptly, she goes red. "Saturday, six. G'bye." The phone is shut off, and she turns, shaking her head. "Bloody men. You're all alike."
She moves to return your phone to you, taking the glass and bringing it to her lips. She needs it after even such a brief contact with her mother. Face to face must be interesting...
"You look amazing," she murmurs after that sip, and she drinks in the sight of you. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you did this every day."
"Hmm...stare out the window or look dashing?" comes the teasing mull of his voice. He smiles as he turns to look at you. "From the sound of it, we are in for an interesting evening on Saturday. What was she saying?" He and his wine glass approach you.
Wolves eyeball lambs with less interest...
Soon the wine glass is deposited on the kitchen island and he is before you again. There is the slight scent of cologne, something warm and spicy, and something of wool. "I try to stare out the window only every other day," his mouth brushes the side of your face, the line of your jaw and your neck.
"So," Rhodri smiles at your ear, "... are you going to school me?" He chuckles at the pun, since you're wearing a schoolgirl's outfit, "...on how to deal with her?" He brushes his mouth against your forehead, your eyelids, and then along the other side of your neck. "I should probably be... debriefed..."
"She wanted to know if I was still getting married, if I was pregnant, cautioning me not to get pregnant before the wedding, then when the wedding was going to be. Didn't want to turn me over to daddy until I answered all her questions." Fiona watches you approach, a bit warily but without retreating. After all, she knows what a temptingly dressed lamb she makes right now...
"Mmm." Fiona makes the sound in her throat as you kiss, hands going up to your shoulders as she sways against you, eyes closing. "I'll tell you what you want to know about my mother," she murmurs, dragging her fingernails down along your shirt lapels, then grabbing hold of them in small fists. "She's a bitch, that's all, and she's never forgiven me for having my own life. I can't just smile and nod and pretend with her - she knows too much of my weaknesses, so all I can do is have it out with her, over and over again. I don't go home much."
She presses close to you for a moment, letting her head tip back, mouth presented for your examination, lips slightly apart with a touch of gloss. "So you like the outfit," Fiona murmurs, "or you thinking more schoolroom thoughts? How long before the food gets here, anyway?"
"I do," he croons out, voice suddenly earthy. Yes, yes he does like it. Exceedingly. "I think you should stay like that for the rest of the night. That is," he grins, "...when you wear clothing." He tastes you on his lips, even the gloss. "It should be here ... probably in the next thirty minutes or so."
Rhodri makes another passing embrace, a hug of you (and your outfit) to him, another series of kisses, but then he ...surprisingly...pulls away, drifting in stride back to the sofa, wine glass in hand. "So... let's have it out, let's go ahead with it. She's intense, demanding," he sits, wineglass held by one hand as his other arm outstretches on the back of the sofa. One leg lifts, ankle resting on knee. No matter how casual the stance, the body is tense, with thoughts and interests of its own.
"...interfering, meddling, nothing is ever good enough, least of all you. Am I close? The only way to deal with that, love, is to kill with kindness..."
He looks at you, rakes over you from where he sits. Come join me... but... not beside me. Sit across from me. I want to ...look at you... "How do you think I should approach it... is there anything you want to know about your husband-to-be before we get there... I think we have name, how we met, titles...what else?"
Eyes blink open as you pull away, and she watches you. She takes up her glass after a momentary pause, but still - she's watching you; this is different, and while she doesn't find criticism for it, it bears observation. As do you...
"I just prefer to avoid her, to be honest. Trying to be kind to her is just too much work. Even then, nothing's ever good enough - I spent years being the dutiful daughter, and the one time I really needed her to be on my side, she wasn't." There's a certain bitterness in Fiona's expression as she says the words, but she shrugs. She's heard you. What she'll do will depend - but she has heard you.
She moves to another seat, curling up in it with a consciousness of how the already short skirt rides up over her thighs, how the too tight blouse pulls at her sides, under the arms, pressing her breasts together within the (white, of course) bra. It is a very complete uniform - perhaps it's even genuinely hers from when she was in school. It would explain the fit.
"Let's see," Fiona says carefully, holding her glass in both hands. "What do you do? Obviously, you don't need to work, but - hobbies, charities, organizations? Travels? Ex-girlfriends I've met? Ex-wives? Children, school you went to, brand of underwear?"
"I spend most of my time tending to a foundation I established, benefitting families in Gwynedd. The foundation also encourages Welsh language literacy in children and programs in schools. Apart from the work of the foundation, Canu Cymru, I manage the continual upkeep and viability of Powis Castle."
Remove the headband.
"Hobbies. Horseback riding, particularly jumping," a quick smile at the double meaning, "...fencing. Athletic and healthy pursuits. Fishing. Boating. Music. I have not yet married, but am looking forward to it..."
And the shirt.
"I attended St. David's, and then the University of Wales, forgoing the usual path of Cambridge or Oxford out of a sense of national pride and duty. My major field of study was finance and language and literature."
Slowly.
"I don't have any children but am looking to start a family. The family is well-off, but the castle takes a great deal of upkeep. I coordinate the funds in concert with the National Registry and various other outreach methods. I have traveled fairly extensively, including New York City. I would prefer to honeymoon in Greece. I love to swim and I like warm water."
It distracts her; can you see it? The realization that she's being toyed with, played with. But she listens as best she can, with an ear turned towards you even as her cheeks begin to glow with the rise of colour. Very schoolgirl indeed...
Her hands lift to her forehead, to her hair, slowly moving to pull the band back and then down. It's a long way down, and she feels every inch as if it were from the top of a cliff to its bottom. "How do you feel about gambling? Religion? Drinking - various vices? How much do you know about my past before you, for that matter?" Fiona peppers the questions at you with a slight desperation.
You may swim, but she always seems to drown...
The headband slips from her fingers to the floor next to her chair, and her gaze is lowered as she begins to work at undoing the buttons. In a way, it's harder to do this slowly; each time she undoes a button, the shirt just pops open that much further in front. All she can do is pause between buttons as the demure brassiere and its contents are increasingly exposed. "And what religion would you want the children raised as?"
"My family is Catholic, though now mostly of the Easter and Christmas variety. I would want to raise them in the church of St. David. We're an unbroken line, you see," his smile smoothes its way to a wide, warm cant as the buttons pop free. "... from the Welsh kings of the 7th Century, and remained Catholic despite the puritan Reformation. That said, I would entertain the notion of bilateral religious training, so long as it isn't Protestant." Jewish, no problem...
You are a vision... beautiful. But he isn't completely selfish. He will give you something to look at as well. Wool unfolds at his lap.
"Vices. I don't gamble, but I do like cards. I drink socially and smoke, being European. I am sexually liberated," he chuckles, with a handful of himself as he says it. "But I'll leave that bit out. Let's see. You were a good student, very bright, naturally, you excelled. You were a debutante before your last year, when cheating school mates tried to take over your final project. You finished and spent a few years in London and France, you were a writer for several underground magazines but eventually returned to polite society with two very high-profile projects, which is how we met..."
Lose the cotton.
"You are a very talented artist in your own right. I've heard you sing and I can't wait to hear you mew lullabies to our fat babies," he chuckles, looking every bit the decadent nobleman partially out of his kit as he is. The tattoos run vividly between his sliding fingers. "How do you like the story so far?"
There's a squirm for compliments and orders alike, hands going up under the short skirt to fiddle with elasticized hems, rolling material down underneath the wool skirt. She is blushing exactly like the schoolgirl she is in the clothing of, even if excitement is in her eyes more than embarrassment itself alone.
"It's a rather well-told tale," Fiona murmurs, wiggling a little in her seat and leaning forward; you get an eyeful of cleavage as the knickers come off, one foot lifted and then the other as they're removed and held up on a fingertip, then crumpled and tossed at you. She was careful not to flash more than hints in the procedure.
Her gaze glances down at you, and there's a pause in her demeanor. She's seen the tattoos before, but this all makes it seem different. Maybe not new, but it's a different sort of light...
Almost flustered, her hands now go to clasp together prayerfully, in front of her breasts. Skirt and bra, socks and shoes, long hair failing to veil anything at all... "So," Fiona murmurs, "knowing my mother is bound to ask, how do you plan on keeping me from returning to my wickedly sinful life in punk?"
"By making you happy," Rhodri quietly states, seriously states -- despite what else might be going on. "Is there any other answer to give but that? I plan on making you very happy. I love you. And if you want to color your hair, that's fine by me. A lady is not measured by her hair but by her acts..."
There's a ring of the telephone. It's a sudden, jarring sound and one that causes Rhodri to chuckle. "Food's here..." He rises, hand settling himself once more and the wool trousers are fastened. "Thank you, Rhonda," he says, answering it by the fifth ring. "Send him up..."
Phone tossed aside, Rhodri heads to the door, opening it and waiting. From there, he looks over his shoulder to you, winking a little. Stay there. I don't want the delivery boy getting any ideas...
"That's the truth, you know. No teasing there. I plan on loving you..."
Posted by rowan at December 12, 2004 10:20 PM
