The conversation at the dinner table was frequently lively and humorous, with anecdotes stuffed full of hyperbole to go with the beef stuffed pastries. The family was treated with a command performance of Plantagenet Charm. Charisma was a wine of its own, that went as well with beef as it did with dessert.
     At the end of dinner, the two men passed from the former great hall to other locations. It was apparent that there was tremendous love for them. It was also apparent that there was great disappointment.
     Hours have passed. No one has died. Or at least, no one has screamed. With four hours until dawn, there is still plenty of evening left. That is, if you have not been awake for a celebration all day and night.
     The door to the master bedroom's own living room ticks open softly and a red-haired Cymri pops his head in to see if anyone's sitting downstairs -- or if anyone's making love upstairs. Surely Rhodri's returned from the party by now.
     Davydd slips in, his face showing the wear and tear of hours of discussion and emotion. He looks like he's been up for days. A hand rakes through his short hair, rubbing his scalp as he turns to close the door behind him. Hearing nothing, he assumes his wife's in bed. Sleeping, if she has any sense. He exhales, moving through the dimly lit room to the bar to pour himself yet another drink.

     She napped when and where she could, knowing full well the 'stamina' of vampires for night-time hours. While the joint was cooking; while the dessert was baking; she supervised in the kitchen at times rather than outright cooking on her own, napping in a chair or curling up on a settee somewhere else. Quick cat-naps; one gets into such habits, when one has had to breast-feed.
     After dinner made it a little easier; with the two men (her husband and his brother in arms) somewhere else, there was time for a quick motherly lecture to her middle son before kissing him and allowing him to slink off into shadows; then she did indeed go up to bed. But not, as you might think, to sleep.
     No, not to sleep...
     Instead, Fiona bathed, letting herself drowse in the warm water, mind casting over her life. Her achievements, such as they have been; where she is, where she has been, where she is yet going. It is with a curious and surprising (to her) lack of disappointment that she finishes her self-scrutiny, calmly rising from the waters without so much as complacent glance to her reflection in the mirror. She has been to the other side of the mirror, and returned. Not unchanged, as none who go there ever return unaltered - but accepting of herself as she is in the moment.
     She's dried herself and gone down to check on Peter, then returned to the bed. There are always things to do; things to look over, things to consider, aims to pursue. As modern as she is, she prefers to write her thoughts, in a mixture of English, French and old Welsh that would all but defy translation to anyone but a member of the family, or possibly the Plantagenet himself. And in due course, she's set her note-making aside, waiting in the bed, curled under covers. She dozed, but came solidly awake at the closing of the door.
     "Rough on you as eating iron nails, wasn't it, Davy."

     He appears in the doorway of the bedroom, whiskey in hand and looking like he's gone a few rounds. There's an exhale, and then with eyebrows arching skyward, Davydd pushes off the doorway and approaches the bed. "Oes," he grunts softly. "I feel like I've been in a wine press. Run through the wringer like an old rag."
     The bed bounces as he sits again, setting his drink on the nightstand after a swallow of the liquid. Let the numbness begin. "A bit brutal, but I was counting on that. Once he gets a hold of something," he says, twisting to look at you, "...he doesn't let it go. I fought him up and down this country, same thing. Everywhere I turned, there was bloody Plantagenet. Relentless." Davydd's mouth quirks suddenly. "He's worse when he loves you."
     But at least he's talking to me. That flashes quite evidently across his features. Yeah. At least he's talking. "He said you and he had a visit," comes the leading statement. "There's not another painting stashed around here is there?" He grins in a moment of needed levity, leaning forward to take the drink again for another swallow.

     She smiles at you. There is understanding in her expression, and something of sympathy. "He loves you very much, Davy, and he is fighting hard not to let you go. That's the devil of it, isn't it? Loving one another, so much that even when it hurts, you don't want to let go."
     Fiona sits up, patting the edge of the bed. "No more paintings," she tells you, looking amused. "I promised I wouldn't take my clothes off for him again, didn't I? Anyway, he didn't offer to, and I didn't ask. But we did talk, yes."
     She looks at you, with your drink, and her amusement seems only to spread. "I was honest with him," Fiona tells you, mischief and an element of light mockery in her voice. "Afraid yet?"

     He laughs, his expression brightening by several notches. "I wasn't until now. Now I'm fucking terrified." Green eyes widen and he knocks back the drink with a swallow. Davydd sets the glass aside and turns about to give his body to the pillows and headboard, fully clothed and all.
     The emotion hovers just right under the surface. His face reddens at his cheeks, highlighting the freckles that march across the bridge of his nose. He folds his arms against his chest, nodding shortly. "Oes," he manages to get out, clearing the emotion from his throat after. "I know he knows he does but it's good to hear it. If he didn't, he wouldn't have come. It's been a long road." He has to look up and away, words ending on the flat of his tongue when emotion rides too high.
     "How did he take it? You being honest with him?" A slight change of topic. Davydd looks at you, amusement curling at his lips. "Normally, he doesn't like that in a woman. I'm not sure he much appreciates it from men, to be honest. But from women?" He shakes his head. "They'd be wasted words. I remember the nights, coo. Going out with him and Edward. If a woman's mouth was open, she found it shut soon enough --"
     He was about to add: and usually around something long and hard. But then remembering you're his lovely wife, he merely cuts the thought off mid-strain and clears his throat again. "Anyway... you were sayin' ...honesty. So... it went alright then?"

     "He took it better than you usually do," Fiona retorts lazily, looking at you with knowing eyes. You are given a look of such affection - and, yes, love. Turning on one hip, she looks to you, watching you. "I don't think I tempt him, no matter his torrid past where women are concerned. He had some things in his mind; I think I put them straight."
     She reaches out, touching your cheek with one light-fingered hand, then drawing her palm slowly away. "He wanted to know if it was my idea, your going to the Silver Tree," Fiona tells you candidly. "I told him it wasn't. That had been worrying him, I think. He felt you'd ... sacrificed him and Edward, in order to be with me, I think - from what he said."
     Her hand comes up, two fingers against your lips. "Swallow that guilt before it drowns you," Fiona advises you calmly. "I set him straight. You weren't trying to sacrifice them, as we all know. You were trying to sacrifice yourself - and doing a damned bad job of it, thank goodness. I understand you very well. He understands you, too - a little better now, I think, than before he got here."
     She smiles at you, though it goes lopsided. "He does love you, Davy. He told me so himself, and everything he said made that plain as night and day. He asked me what I think of all the drama, you know."

     His lips pucker beneath your fingers, a kiss given for your press there and for all your dear wisdom. Imagine this, a slip of a girl not even thirty seeming wise to someone who's eight centuries her senior. "The Silver Tree," he repeats. He considers that. And then, trying to see it from William's vantage, exhales a touch. His breath lukewarm -- room temperature to be exact.
     "I'm coming to better understand how it was seen, understood, or not. Even by me. I was trying to save them from me. By shoving them away. And they... confused, hurt, betrayed... shoved back. That was a brutal week. Jesus," he shuts his eyes with another sigh, his head rolling against the headboard. He doesn't stay there long, in that dark place in his soul. His dark green eyes open, fixing on you in their brilliant, forested way.
     "Sacrificing one family for the other, I didn't really see it like that. They did, that's quite clear. But... he does love me. And I love him. And I love Edward. But... Edward's... more hurt and more betrayed than even William. I... I don't think that one's going to repair. And I can't talk about it," his voice tugs in emotion again, "...because the thought of that makes me sick to my soul, m' girl. Just plain sick to my soul. What little soul I've left," Davydd gruffs suddenly, wincing a smile in all that emotion.
     His hand comes up, rubbing at his eyes. "It's small steps," he murmurs. "Small steps to get back to where we're walkin' in the same direction again. At least Gwilym's stopped and seems to be waiting for me to catch up. He's not giving up, god bless his Plantagenet soul. A contradiction in terms," he suddenly cracks, "...with all of them save him. If he'd been king, girl, what a world it could have been."

     "You have more soul than you think." Her voice is calm, stays calm, smiling at you. There is compassion there, knowledge, and that understanding. "Because you stopped giving your soul up, Davy. You always try to make it out to be that you're supposed to be alone - go it alone, chin up, be a man about it. But your soul and your fate are tied into your family. You did come very close to giving it up. Pushing everyone away - even me, remember? And even I couldn't stop you, if you were really, truly determined to go to hell. But you stopped yourself in time."
     She strokes her hand against your cheek, then down your chest, returning your look with one of her own. "I don't mean by family just our children, or just you and me, or even you and me and Rhodri. That's part of it. But your heart's able to be larger than that, Davy. There's William and Edward in it, yes, and others, I'm sure. You always take all of the blame and none of the credit; poor thing. You're a different sort of king than your brother Plantagenet."
     She smiles again, reaching up to tug on your hair gently. "He's trying to catch up as much as you are. But to do that, he needed to understand what was going on better. He knows about us - obviously," Fiona rolls her eyes, "as if anyone who spends any time around us could fail to see it. He knows about Gwilym, guessed about Iowerth. And I think he's happy for you, in his own way. It isn't the life he wants, he's happy on his own path - but I think he's preparing to accept some intersection between yours and his again. It'd be easier if you could talk about it, put it into words better - but it's heavier between the two of you. You've got too much history, and let's face it, it's been very tangled. I understand it, but only instinctively; I can open my mouth and put it into words, but only if I don't try to think about it too hard."
     She straightens up, pushing her hair back slowly from her face, lifting it in both hands to pile on top of her scalp. "I don't think from the things you've said and shown me that if he'd been king," Fiona says candidly, "that it would have been very much different from how things did go. He wouldn't have had enough time to develop into what he is now. I think what you mean is, if he could be king now, what a world it could be. And he could be that, if he wanted to. He's got the money and connections. But that's not what he's trying to be, is it? Is that what you want to be?"

     "No," Davydd answers that easily enough, and with the hush of honesty. "No, I don't. That's why I have sons." He smiles at you, turning his face back your way. "I am a warrior, that's what I am. It's the only thing I've really been all my life. I'm not the visionary my sons are, god bless them both. I can embody an idea, but create something like Iowerth's done? No... that's not in me to do. But you're right. What I do have is my heart, and it should be a wide thing, able to hold any I meet. It's not about this or that family, this or that love."
     But Plantagenet will be king one day. I've seen him crowned. He and Ian standing there. That wasn't my son I saw. It was my friend. France could use a new one.
     "I'm a working king. One what still has to fix his own roof. And I like it that way. King of my own castle, which is my heart, oes? I mean, what other kingdom is there really? And it's a ... bigger picture, a bigger world I know now. My place, my point is doing other things. Being in the world. Being a part of it. And... not trying to kill myself for a change." He smirks at that. That's a novel concept, innit?
     Sitting forward with an exhalation, Davydd rolls himself out of his sweater, giving it a toss to the foot of the bed. He's all knots and trees and dragons, and he bends forward to untie his shoes. "I wish I could talk about it," he notes. "I tend to say nothing, blurt it all out until its nonsense. I'm no good talking about m' feelings. Ugh, just even saying that sounds like I need to start knitting a skirt for m'self."

     "I think it suits you to be that kind of king," Fiona tells you with a warm smile, reaching for your hand. "So I'm glad that's what you want to be. Mind - if you decided you wanted to be king of all England and Scotland and Wales, I'd stand behind you, Davy. Fixing your own roof doesn't have to mean keeping out the sky along with the rain and wind. But I am glad you're not feeling especially suicidal."
     Her hair has tumbled down with her movement, and she ignores it as she watches you undressing for bed. "Some places and some people need a visionary. Some places and some people don't, you know. Ideas and ideals are good to have, lofty ambitions and all. But when the roof's leaking and the river's getting ready to flood its banks, you don't want lofty ideas. You want someone who can fix a roof and call up the people to come shore up the levee. There's room for both kinds of kings, you know."
     She settles back against the pillows with a quiet sigh, closing her eyes. "Well," Fiona says practically, "you can't talk about your feelings much; that's half of why you married me, isn't it? Because as much as I need the I-love-yous, I know, generally, how you feel without having to be told. Your tongue ties practically into knots around William, and even around Rhodri, and Iowerth and Gwilym. The way you've always grown, feelings aren't what are meant to be talked about; there've always been more pressing concerns. Floods. Fires. Invading armies. Crops to be gotten in, meat to be hunted, roofs to be fixed. And that doesn't leave an awful lot of time for self-examination and discussion, does it? And then you had all that time in which to think and do nothing but think, so you - turned it off, a bit. You thought, but you went round in circles and couldn't find the door."

     He turns his head, giving you a look. You know the one. The one that gapes at your second head. He's astonished for a moment, and then Davydd chuckles, shaking his head. Soon, the chuckles a laugh and his shoes are being flipped off the bed. "Woman, I haven't told you nearly enough but... I'm going to say it now..."
     And suddenly you've an eyeful as Davydd leans in, scoops you up for a kiss. "I love you," he says. He says it simply, without adornment. It's open and honest. "You see me way too clearly for your own good. But thankfully clear enough for mine."
     There's nothing he can say to what you've said. You've pretty well hit the nail on the head and have driven it straight through the wood. And he knows that's what's bothered his friends the most in all this. It's not that he ran off and said some damn fool thing -- for what would have been special or extraordinary about that? It was his actions, it was how he acted and how he moved that upset them. For that's how he communicates. He's always shown them loud and clear that he loved them. That week, he came close to immolating himself in front of them, and then was shocked when they looked horrified...
     Giving his body to the bed, Davydd surrounds you with his arms and pulls you in. There's a certain amount of gnawing at your lips. "You're a good girl, you know that?" Davydd whispers. "And I'd be lost... truly lost without you. Thank god you love me," he quips. "I'd be a toasted marshmallow without you standing around me with a bucket of water!"

     She laughs as you pull her close; she's used to the look by now, and far too tolerant of it for her own good. "I love you, too," Fiona says softly, looking up at you. It is there, in her eyes, clear as can be. "Not quite enough to worship, Davy; I was never cut out to worship anyone, much. But I love you far, far too much. I do adore you."
     She snuggles in close to you. "I'm not all that good," she murmurs. "But I suppose I'm not all that bad, either. Ever since I met you, you were the one, Davy. God only knows why, but there it is. I think William needed to know ... that you hadn't traded it all for a piece of fluff. Since he knew, of course, how I felt about you. And your lives have changed. You can't just go on a pub crawl to get back to where you were; you're both in a different country from that, now. But he's said you're still his family, and I know he's still yours. But I think the one thing he said that made me the happiest - I'm selfish, I know - was he said he's glad I'm with you."
     She smiles at you, then lets her head fall into the crook of your shoulder. "You should," Fiona says lazily, "do something for him, all the same. As hard as it is for you, with your emotions ... that would be a good thing to do, I think, if you can. What would mean something to him?"

     He peers at you a moment. "He said that? Well.... good on him then," Davydd whispers. "For seeing what I see s' clearly. But ... that's his way. He sees ... the unexpected. What others can't see. That's the artist's eye, or sommat." He's not really sure where it comes from, but no one can deny William's perception, least of all him.
     "I don't need his eyes to know what I've got," he moves you in his arms, giving you a hugging nudge. "I'm a lucky bastard. I know that much. I might not act like it all the time, or enough but... I do realize it, oes? I'm not completely mad!" He protests it even though you aren't arguing the fact.
     Davydd rests with you, his arms holding fast and tight and tenderly. "That's a good question," he murmurs. "He has everything. He has been everywhere. He can do anything. He's a hard man to buy for, or offer sommat to. I wouldn't know where to begin, to be honest. I mean, what does one get the man who literally has everything he could ever want? He owns three castles, most of the art in the world, drives sex on four wheels, and he's in love and married. I usually get him alcohol when I get him something. You know, mead or something of Wales. Something he's not likely to have in his own stores."
     With an exhale, he rolls over to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling in thought. "I'm no artist, or I'd paint him a picture or sommat. I've no talent such as that. Nothing tangible, visible. And Christ knows he's heard me sing until he's sick. I'd sing to keep us awake during the wars..." His voice trails off slowly, softly in thought.
     "I'll have to think on it a while. You're right,, though. I should get him something. I'll have to sort out that bit." Davydd grins, his thoughts straying to another, earlier topic. "So, can't get enough of me, can you? Adore me, d' you? Are you all girly for me, then?"

     "I think I'm lucky, myself," Fiona murmurs to you, squirming in your arms for a moment, getting to a more comfortable perch. "I think we're both lucky. That we could get over ourselves to be here with each other - it hasn't been easy. For either of us. Separately and together, it's been a lot of fuss getting here - a lot of mountains."
     She smiles at you again, reaching up and tangling her fingers in your hair. "Think about it," she agrees. "I can do something for him, but - I think it would mean more coming from you, or from 'us', whatever you think best. He's a good friend to have, and deserves thanking... emotional though it might be."
     You roll onto your back and she curls at your side, one hand coming to rest on your stomach. She drums absently against your muscles, your ribs as you stray, and then she laughs out loud. "Davy," Fiona says quietly, humour warming her eyes. "Look at me, will you? I was a girl before you bumped into me. But I wasn't girly, was I, with my Doc Martens and my punk and unisex and attitude, was I? There wasn't anything soft about me, I made damned sure of that. If I adored you one whit less ... do you think I'd ever have been able to let myself be vulnerable?"

     He laughs. It's a quiet laugh. Earthy and warm. Turning to look at you, he is a grinning, madcap fool. Well, a fool for certes. "Oh, you were soft. I wasn't buying the attitude. You were soft and squishy as a girl should be. In all the right places. Even when you were all piss and vinegar. And you're still piss and vinegar sometimes. You just needed the right man," he grins, knowing you're likely to pop him for it. "A man who could protect you, oes? So you could ... blossom," his words break in his own laughter, "... into a full-fledged woman."
     He laughs, and his emotion pulls from him, expressed now, even if in laughter rather than the tears of guilt they started out to be. Rolling over, Davydd buries his fingers in your flesh, tickling and wrestling, teasing and pinning you all at once. "You're sweet on me, Doc Martens and all, you naughty little princess."
     His fingers relax their tickling grab, his arms settling around you once more. "I'll do sommat for him. Soon as I figure out what. I'll have to think on't a bit. I never thought we'd be lying in MY bed talking about William. Well, he finds his way into every bed one way or another," he gruffs with a grin. "That face. It's that face that does it, isn't it..."

     She makes a horrible face at you as you describe her as so girly, one hand lifting to whack your shoulder. For all that it does about as much damage as whacking the side of the castle, she does it still. "If you weren't buying the attitude," Fiona demands, "then why did you run away so hard? Git. I didn't even know I was chasing you - well, I knew I was, I just fooled myself as to why, didn't I? Thinking it was only about answers. Git." She repeats the word with a contented sound.
     She squirms under your tickling, arms and legs flailing as she mock-growls at you, bites at you. "Double-git," she whispers, relaxing after a squeal as you settle, and she settles with you. "Anyway, it doesn't matter how pretty William is. It's your face I want to see, you know. The only time I felt there was any danger of my ending up in bed with him, I shoved a wardrobe in front of the door. That was in a castle, too. Funny, how much my sex life seems to revolve around castles. Maybe I should stop spending so much time with kings, hm?"
     She rubs her palm along your shoulder, sighing for the sight and feel of dragons. "I'm glad you were able to reconcile yourself to the idea of being with me, Davy," Fiona murmurs, voice again going lower in volume, as if for fear of waking someone, of being overheard. "You know I'm not all that smart, right? I don't know how to think about things. I rely on the back of my brain to do my thinking for me, that's all. But once I knew - knew, really - that I wanted to be with you, that I had feelings for you... it was hopeless. And," she adds simply, "it didn't matter how I tried to handle it. You still kept popping up, without my even looking for you. I was so determined to get over you without even admitting I loved you, you know. I fell into it in bits and pieces. And then I just woke up one day and - well, I knew."

     "That's all past history now," Davydd rumbles low, giving his weight to you and to the bed. "You love me now, that's what matters. And you're a good woman. A good mother. Delightful, infuriating," he grins, "... perplexing. I sound like a sick man rambling, listen to me." He bends his head, kissing you. It's a gentle peck, not overly quick, not terribly long. "I still want it," he whispers. "Another red-haired baby. All this talk of families... of my family of friends... of watching my boy up there, our boy up there. Coo, wasn't he impressive? He'll be a good king. We're in good hands there, darlin'. I have full confidence in our Io."
     He gets that look in his eyes again. That glint that mixes with tenderness. Dark green eyes look at your face, in your eyes, and past it. He looks at your body, how you rest partially beside and beneath him. And he smiles. "You will tell me, oes. When you're ready. I'm never so happy as when I have a big family around me," Davydd whispers. "And that includes William and Edward, yeah. My boys," he sighs. Both sets of them.
     There's a glimmer of melancholy that passes over him. But for now, he chooses not to acknowledge it. Davydd smiles in a slant. "You ...sure you want to wait? You're just so beautiful when you're pregnant. I can't get enough of it..."

     "He'll be a wonderful king," Fiona whispers, and her eyes suddenly fill with tears. "But he grew up too fast. It's horrible, isn't it? I don't want him to still be a little boy, or to be anything other than who and what he is. But I wish I could look at him and find the little boy in his face - I wish he could still need me."
     She sniffles once, then wipes her hand carefully over one eye, then the other, curling in towards you. "Not yet," she murmurs a bit shakily. "But ... soon, yes. And ... well ..."
     There is a hesitation in her, almost coy as she looks at you sidelong, then smiles at you. "The problem is," she murmurs, "if we have them here... well ... how big a family do you want here, Davy? The next ones really should be there, I thought - but we need to figure that out before I answer you, I think. Here or there? Where will they belong? It would be hard to raise them in both worlds, with Peter's ... sensitivity."

     "They did grow up too fast. I miss them," Davydd whispers. And then he sighs, lowering his head so his forehead rests to yours briefly before he rolls over to lie upon his back again. "Hmm.. well.. we'll have to think about it a while. I think there is best. Safest," he counters. "So, we'll have to wait until Peter's older, oes? A couple of years at least." A corner of his mouth quirks downward ever so slightly. "I shouldn't go on making progeny I haven't any land or .. gifts for. But I do miss my boys. I suppose that's a poor reason to have another, but..." He rolls his shoulders.
     He can't help it...
     Turning his head on the pillow, Davydd looks at you. "It'll happen when it's meant to. I can't always have my way, now can I?" Smirking, he rolls his eyes at himself and then finally closes them. "He'll always need you," Davydd murmurs. "And Gwilym too. Not that he 'needs' anyone, going by what he says. But you know he speaks more shite even than I do. So... your boys need you. Don't worry for that."

     "Then I suppose you should conquer some of the unclaimed lands, shouldn't you?" Fiona counters serenely, ticking her fingers against your chest. "There's plenty of territory out there waiting to be shaped, Davy. There always will be, won't there? It being dreams, and dreams can never be fully mapped, fully conquered. If that's what you feel you need, then we can do it that way - wait until Peter's a little older while his papa makes plans to conquer a few worlds. Besides, it would mean you could put Gwilym to work - he seems a little at loose ends to me, and we both know that the more that one's at loose ends, the more trouble he'll find to stir up."
     It is motherly instinct, not any knowledge which prompts her to say that, and she smiles at you tolerantly. "Maybe you should send Gwilym to work for William. That would be a gift and an act of trust and faith, wouldn't it? It has something of a medieval flair to it - the royal hostage. Though I don't think he would hold him hostage, and I don't think Gwi would stay if it didn't suit him; but they do seem to have something in common, in some odd sort of way. I can't put my finger on it."
     She sighs, then, snuggling in close to you, closing her own eyes. "I love you, Davy. Don't worry; we'll go on peopling the world with our love and our dreams and ambitions. I'm nowhere near done having babies yet. But give me a little while to be myself before I go back to being mummy with babies in my tum, mm? There will always be kingdoms to conquer and to run, and it seems to me that you are at your best when you're conquering and shaping up conquered territory. When things fall into routine, it grows stale for you and it's time to move on. But you knew that, or you did, once; you told me yourself about being a campaigning king. Think about that one for a while. Dawn will be coming soon, so we should get some sleep - before Rhodri gets home and keeps us awake til dawn."

Posted by rowan at December 19, 2006 02:59 PM