There is an air of efficient tidiness. Even from outside your door over the delicious Pashmina's (food of the Hindu gods), that... feeling of a waiting, straightened abode exists. As if, in fact, no one whatsoever was within, loitering on your sofa, drinking your beer, watching your telly, with his feet on your coffee table.
     "Oh fuck me," the groan of a great Welshman can be heard through the door, ruining the peaceful, Pottery Barn catalog vibe. "Jesus, why don't you just pull down your kit and let Manchester fuck you up the arse. It'd be cheaper."
     A pillow finds its way through the air and bouncing ineffectually off of the flatscreen's ...screen. Flatscreen? Yes. It's new. It's a gift. For himself. You can watch it too, if you want. Plasma, latest of the latest, fully integrated satellite with, not strangely, all of the sports channels available. Currently on, Cardiff vs. Manchester U.
     Davydd sits in your lounge chair, heels on your coffee table, remote and beer on the small side table. There he is as you have remembered him. In a black leather coat, wharfman style hitting just below the hips. A black sweater, black trousers and black Doc Marten Oxfords. At the moment, he is sitting with some exasperation, helpless exasperation, as he watches Cardiff go down 4 to 2.

     There's a pause from outside the apartment, and a pair of eyebrows go up. Well. This is different. She isn't used to coming home to someone being in her flat. Even when Huw was there, he was in cat form. Even when Hwyll was there, that didn't last very long. Should she knock, to warn you? Never mind that with your senses, you know she's there, quite likely, for sure; the scent of her hair, the sound of her step. Though it's barely possible that you're so absorbed in your game that you're just ... not aware...
     The beer you're drinking is kept there for you - or for guests, at any rate. She doesn't drink the stuff unless she's stealing sips of yours or Rhodri's for the pleasure of being that curious kind of female thief. When she drinks, usually it's cider, or if she's wanting to be 'hardcore', hard alcoholic drinks. When she's drinking to get drunk, most often it's Stoli vanil...
     The key rattles in the lock beneath the sound of the game and your own irritation, and the door swings open and in she walks. It was tempting to change, right out there in the hallway, but someone might see and that wouldn't do. Fiona steps in, closing the door behind her and turning the key in the lock again, stopping to lean back against the door and look at you. Blue eyes travel along your frame, measuring you inch per inch, and then she smiles, slowly, warmly, with a luminescence of sheer pleasure for seeing you, for having you there.
     Her coat is slipped off, her braid tossed back over her shoulders. She's got on a primrose sweater - off the shoulder as per her usual - with a pair of jeans, and a pair of boots. Nothing too fancy; she was off taking care of business, most likely. The coat is dropped by the door, and without speaking, she sets at you at a dead run, making a leap for the lounge chair to rugby-tackle you in your sitting position. Banzai!

     "Oh for fuck sake," he mutters. "It's like five-hundred years of history means nothing to you people." The key rattles and you come in, and in typical Davydd style (you can ask Rose if you want confirmation), he waves at you. "Welcome home to my heartbreak..."
     But the padding sound of feet in quick pace catches him off guard, even as Cardiff manages to score, narrowing the gap to 4/3. His voice roars out at one, then turns to a laughing 'what the fuck are you doing' laugh. "Jesus, isn't my pain at losing money enough for you, you want to run at me and hurt an old man..."
     "Look," he croons out, hand patting you on your rump and pointing to the telly hanging on the wall. "I got us something." Us. Me. Whatever. "I put your old one in your room. I figure, we could always watch vids on it if the mood strikes," Davydd says, looking back to you. There's a kiss for that for everything else.
     He smells lightly of cologne, something nice and woody, very masculine, with a touch of cinnamon. His skin's warm, even the leather coat. He's been here for a while. "I thought I'd pop by a little early. I need a night off. I've been going balls to the wall on magic for the past three months. I need a break. Mind?"

     "Mind? Of course I don't mind. Don't be an idiot." Ah, that's a Drancy-voiced statement, isn't it? Fiona grins at you, the lilt in her eyes as well as her voice as she slides her arms around you to squeeze you as if she could make your ribs creak. Oh, but she would if she could. She is more than happy to see you, and it shows; she rubs her cheek against your shoulder, then leans up for the kiss, turning against you to peer at the wall.
     "I saw it on my way in. Spending money, Old Man? Well, I suppose if you've got it to spend, why not?" Fiona sighs, curling in your lap for a moment and digging in. "In my room, hm? What else have you gone and changed, or should I go find out for myself..."
     She sits up, starts to stand up, running a hand through your hair. "Have you eaten, or should I look into that as well? I was going to call you, you know. This saves me the trouble."

     "There are a few things," he notes. He's capable of surprises. The face says it all. High cheekbones cut a rugged sort of beauty, like that of his own home coast. He pulls you back down as you start to rise. "Not yet, I want to have a lap ornament. You look really nice. I like pink." He does indeed. "All women should wear it, makes them look like flowers."
     He leans in for another kiss. This one fuller, more of a 'I'm really glad to see you' sort of embrace. A playing kiss, tugging, brushing, then widening, then just a simple press as he releases you. With a grin, Davydd spanks your rump. "It's on the bed. You can't miss it. Two big boxes wrapped in silk and another really tiny one. No occasion necessary. I just felt like being," an exhale with a grin, "...fucking lavishly goddamned romantic."
     Not that he doesn't love you, but you are blocking the game. Davydd cranes his neck to watch the latest -- Manchester U making another run on a goal. "Why don't you just stake me in the heart, same as I'm sitting here. Jesus... I should never bet on the Welsh. They just disappoint you in the end..." Much has been said about him in that light as well, and as you well know.
     "Oh, food... hmm... you know we could be lazy and get Pashmina's. Are you tired of take out?" He looks at you to make sure. Your men tend not to spend much money on wining and dining you, this is true. Food is food to them, it seems; though, of the two, Rhodri is much more inclined toward gourmet cuisine. "I don't want to seem cheap," he smirks. "Up to you."
     There are, indeed, three beautifully wrapped packages on your bed, in stair-step size from really long (like a coat box?), another box on top of it also rectangular but smaller, and a third box that is very, very tiny. All are wrapped in exquisite blue silk with sky blue silk ribbons. Like it's Christmas, your anniversary or your birthday...

     "Oh, if you like pink, you'll love what I've got for you." Fiona grins it more than purrs it, letting you hold onto her, leaning forward and slightly into you, into your kiss. She rubs against you, nipping as you spank, then moves to rise again, smile threatening to spill over the edges of her expression again. "I'll show you later. Presents first, hm?"
     She moves out of the way of the television, heading towards the bedroom with that same smile in her voice as she speaks over her shoulder. "Nah, takeout's fine. I had non-Indian last night, so my stomach should be up for handling it, and I'd rather not cook right now. And you're not cheap - I never did get though to show off the fruits of that shopping trip you gave me." Remember that? Back before things Changed...
     She picks up the boxes, peering at them, pausing and glancing back to the door. True, you're all busy with your game, but ... "Would you like me to come out and open them in front of you, or isn't it a commercial break yet?"

     "Nah, go ahead and bring them on in," he sighs, sitting up. The telly's not turned off -- god forbid -- but it's changed from football to some American show. He turns the sound down for now and takes his beer, turning his head to watch you go.
     "Something for me?" he grins, eyebrows cocking skyward. "You shouldn't have," he purrs out himself, well... purr... he growls it out as a dragon should. "If it's pink and something you'll wear around for me in private, I'll probably love it. Put it on and bring the rest out here," he grandly says, sitting back, feet on the floor and legs relaxed wide. He takes up space, your Welshman.
     The large box is rather heavy. The middle sized box is quite light. The little box? For its diminutive size it is quite substantial...

     There's the sound of shuffling in the bedroom for a few minutes, the sound of the closet opening and closing. "You know," Fiona calls conversationally, "I'm thinking I'm going to have to redecorate. Or if you like, I'll give you the privilege, though not to put you out. But for one thing, a king-sized bed seems in order if you're going to be doing sleepovers..."
     A queen for a queen-sized bed, but not if she's sharing it with her king...
     She re-emerges, carrying the blue silk boxes stacked on top of each other, barely restraining her curiosity. It shows in the glimmer of her eyes, sharing space with that feminine mischief of which you now know her to be so capable; and with good reason. The outfit she's changed into, or perhaps stripped off the outer layers of, is indeed pink - not primrose pink, startlingly, femininely rose-pink, deeper than pale but not so bright as to cross into hot pink or fuchsia. It comes close, though. And it falls into the sort of whimsy that isn't meant to be worn out of the bedroom...
     The smooth silk cups and lifts her breasts to cover just halfway over her nipples, held up not by straps but by boning, sliding down snugly to just over the tops of her hips, laced up the front and back, and the white lace trim has been spun, seemingly by candyfloss fairies, to a sugary delicate layer along the top and at the bottom and nowhere else - save the knickers, which evidently are part of a set. They tie at her hips with lacy bows, held up not by any elastic but by their knots.
     Legs which you have remarked upon carry her towards you, white-stockinged to mid-thigh with small rosined bows in front; she must have taken the time to straighten them for maximum effect before walking back out. Though her gait is slowed just a little by the French heels, as high as you've ever seen her wear at three inches, adding a sway to her walk. Those are either dyed to match the lingerie, or came with the set, or she got incredibly lucky. As lucky, perhaps, as you...
     "I was thinking of you when I bought this." Yes, she bought this - she didn't make this as she's been doing. She actually went to a shop for this, and spent her (ha) hard-earned money, or more likely, someone else's. Fiona grins at you, tapping the white lace choker she now has around her throat, then hastily grabbing hold of the packages so they can't spill from her grip. She's magicked her hair up to elaborate curls piled atop her head, looking as if any one if tugged might bring the whole thing down. "But I think I'll sit on the couch to open my presents..."
     Torture... she makes her way to the couch, easing herself down and turning to the side to lean over her presents, smoothing fingers over blue silk wrapping and bows to open them. She doesn't even spare you a glance, now. Ah, you've been forgotten in her Christmas-like glee...

     There's a blink. Not just one but a cluster of blinks as you walk past him dressed as a sugar-dipped flower. If he were holding onto his can at the time, he may have squeezed it to a pulp, sending the Guinness froth-high in a not-so-far-from-the-truth statement.
     Eyebrows are so high they nearly leap off his forehead as he looks you up, looks you down, right down to the heels, his coloring high, particularly across those cheekbones, making the freckles of sunny days old pop out across the bridge of his small nose. "I don't think you could squeeze a king-sized bed up that stairway but ... I'm sure there's something we can ...figure out... between the two of us... you are... my favorite garden," he thinks to say.
     I could bury my face in your petals where you sit...
     Clearing his throat, Davydd sits back and reaches for his Guinness, giving his head a shake. As if to clear it. Or clear away the dizziness ensuing from all the blood leaving his brain. "I hope you like them. I felt like doing..." well you know what I want to do, "... a little shopping for you."
     The large box, when opened, contains an entire outfit. What is called a Touring Coat, looking very Brigitte Bardot -- in fact the whole thing looks straight out of her closet, or perhaps Ann-Margret's. It is a sea-foam, turquoisy sort of blue, with blue fabric buttons. Tucked within its folds are a pink and light blue-checkered boucle skirt, an off the shoulder cashmere sweater (pink) and a pair of kitten heels (he was going to try to break you in, as he has done so many times before).
     The middle box. The middle box contains a French fantasy. There is a pink and black chiffon lingerie set, with pink and black poofy chiffon knicker-shorts that could only exist in Barbarella or some other male fantasy from the 1960s or 1970s, with silk thigh-high stockings to be held by pink and black ribbon garters. There are another pair footwear, kitten heels again (he's so kind). They are ... pink Swarovski crystal overlay slippers. Could have easily cost several thousand pounds alone.
     Drumroll please...
     The tiny box...
     The tiny box, well, it still has to be held in two hands, it's just so much smaller than the other two -- it contains chiffon (again, another theme). Wrapped in chiffon there is a jeweled heart locket, the jewels are a mixture of topaz (light blue) and sapphires (dark blue), and it is a three-dimensional locket. When you open the clasp, another chain drips out of it. Not silver. Not gold. Not even platinum. This was not purchased.
     This was made...
     At the end of it is a pink-stoned flower, the stone resplendent, more so than one of those crystals. It is a pink lady diamond. Several carats large.

     You receive a glance for your reactions, both verbal and telepathic, low, dark and amused. She likes your reaction; yes, she does... I'm not sure about these shoes. I can barely walk in them - I've never been very into heels, and I feel ready to fall over. But they matched so well that I had to buy them, for the visual effect if nothing else.
     Aloud, she remarks serenely, "Well, I'm sure we can manage to get an appropriate bed in here one way or another. And I'm sure I'll love anything you give me, Davydd. Though this is actually only one of the things I've got for you. The others can wait for a rainy day, though. I want to surprise you once in a while." And then she turns to the unwrapping, carefully unfolding and refolding each panel of silk, sliding boxes out of their wrappers and opening them, one by one.
     There is not one exclamation but a series of exclamations made, first with the outfit - the big box has to be opened first, of course. "Davydd! Have you been reading my diary or something? This would be perfect for a picnic, don't you think? All it needs is a cartwheel hat!" Her cheeks flare pink as she smoothes the coat against her. Every item has to be held up and examined. Of course...
     The next box is opened, and there's a blink and a bit of a blush. "I see our minds run along similar lines," Fiona murmurs. You receive another glance now, and she peers at you from under half-lowered lashes as she holds up the shorts, then runs a fingertip along one of the slippers. "You shouldn't have, you know. I mean ... it's lovely. But you'll make me feel guilty..."
     She's already turning to the last box, though, opening it without dwelling on her guilt, sitting up as she carefully takes out the chiffon and unwraps it. There's another gasp for the locket. "Oh, my god," she murmurs. She doesn't squeal it (that's not a sound you hear her make except when you tickle her or sometimes during passionate sex); she breathes it, she runs the chain through her fingers, touching a fingertip to it. And then she opens the clasp, and the gasp you hear is if anything, louder...
     "This ... Davydd ..." You've knocked her speechless without even touching her with your hands. She's touched, clearly, but it's emotion, running high in her face, making eyes dampen as she holds up the diamond-crafted floral tribute. "Get over her," Fiona murmurs, voice a bit cracked. "I'm not putting this on by myself, you - you Welsh bastard. Come over here, I don't think I could walk. Damn these shoes, anyway..."

     "I've never given you anything but one old ring and a hard time," he murmurs as he sits beside you, moving one of the boxes over and lightly touching your shoulder for you to turn and give him the nape of your neck. It's one of your best features -- at least as far as he's concerned. "So... as I was walking in London today, I decided it was high time I treated you like the woman I love, who's going to be the mother of my children, and the woman who rules as a queen in my bedroom."
     He's quiet as he clasps the necklace around your neck. "I cheated with this one," he whispers. "I asked Bianca... as the mother of Lancelot du Lac... what she would recommend. She said, my king of kings, give her the picture of her that you keep in your heart. Something she would never expect you would give her. For she knows me well. When I think of you, when I am away from you, I think of the pinkness of your skin when you're beneath me, the sweet taste of you against my tongue and the light touch of your fingers. This is what that feeling looks like." He kisses the nape of your neck and turns you back toward him a little so he make look at it. "Yes, I think my love for you looks an awful lot like that."
     It is wholly Davydd -- both sweet-hearted and suggestive. His favorite flower lies between your thighs. There is that in there as well. His large hand reaches up and strokes against your cheek, lifts your chin and he smiles just short of kissing you. "I'm glad you love it." The kiss is a brush of his mouth, a teasing taste, but just now he does not ask for more.
     "And when I saw the other outfits on Seville Row, I thought immediately of you. You and a few French actresses I knew." He grins at that and waggles his eyebrows. "It will make me very happy to see you in it. And I'll... make sure you get a lot of practice wearing those shoes. Practice makes perfect. I'll help you... learn how to balance." Wide and wild is the grin.
     "And you don't have to save the coat and boucle for me. But the lingerie is my personal little dirty fantasy." No sharing. But he doesn't say it. Exactly. "I'm glad you like it, my love. And ... I should spoil you, right? So the next time you come in and see me with my feet on your kit, you can forgive me more easily." He winks, teasing, and with another kiss upon your nape, he starts to stand.

     A few tears spill from the tumult of her eyes, downcast as they are as you affix the necklace into place around her throat. "I don't care if you cheated," Fiona murmurs. "You did it to be thoughtful, and ... she's right, I never would have expected this. I feel ... I don't even know, Davydd. It's incredible. But then, you're incredible, you know."
     You turn her towards you, her fingers lift to touch the diamonds, then to touch your shoulder, lips pressing in return to yours. "You know how much I like playing dress-up. And I'll accept the help - among other things. Don't worry; I wouldn't share the lingerie." She gave her word, after all. Separate wardrobes for separate men. No wonder she's begun creating the clothing from sheer magic, and dissolving it once she's done with it. Who has the memory to keep track of every last outfit...
     "Davydd!" You move to rise and she grabs your hand, rising with you. "Where do you think you're going," Fiona demands, bringing your hand to her waist. "You - honestly! Yes, you can spoil me, but there's no forgiveness necessary. Silly man, don't you know? I ..." She shakes her head in fondness and exasperation, emotion still glimmering in her gaze as she looks to you. "There's actually - well, I was going to talk to you about something, but you've put it out of my mind now. If we're ordering dinner in, though, I should change into something a little less provocative. Do you want to order while I do that? And I'll try to remember. But you do know I've got to reward you for this."
     This. All of this. Her fingers go to the necklace again, brushing against it. There's a soft sigh in the depths of her abdomen, and she leans in to kiss your cheek, arms going up and around your neck with no indication of wanting to let go. "Davydd ap Owain," Fiona whispers, "you do know that I think myself the luckiest girl in this or any old world, don't you? And it's all been because you stopped to scoop me up three years ago..."

     "At first, I thought I was damned. Then, I thought I was cursed. Now, I realize I'm happy." He says quietly in return, remaining on the sofa where you keep him. He smiles in that cant-wise way that is hereditary (his son has it, he has it, his other children will have it and likely his brothers had it. And so on.). Davydd finishes that recitation with a kiss. One that allows breaths to be exchanged, pulse to be felt, mouths to be tasted.
     "Sure, order dinner, change clothes so you don't get curry all over it. You can change back into it when dinner's done. You'll make me a very happy man if you do. And I do it to see the look on your face, not to get your face in my pants," he rattles on. No reward necessary, but he won't turn it away. "I love you, Fiona Arundel." His finger brushes across the pink diamond petal. "Hmmm... and I do... love your flower..."
     He holds onto you for another moment, pats your back. "G'on now," Davydd rumbles. "...you lovely pink flower." Yes, very. You can tell by the sound of his voice. "I'll have the cherry and potato naan, kabla naan... and the red curry. A side of cinnamon bread and cherry chutney..."

     "Lamb korma, I'll have the same on the naan, oh, and a mango lassi, if you'll order. I'll be back in three ticks." Before she goes, you receive a smile - your first reward. It is a complete look, it glows from within as perhaps you've never seen. Open, that look is. From the heart. Even if her generosity were not so complete, she enjoys the reward and the granting of the award too much to deny you. And right now, her heart is open to you through her eyes, open to the core, visible as if those blue, grey, green shifting, shimmering eyes parted for you as a veil.
     The gifts are left for the moment, left to be collected on her return. Fiona sways across the room again, moving as slowly as she'd come the first time; but this time, her gaze is tilted down to the pink diamonds she wears, one hand lifted to gently touch the chain. The other gifts are not meaningless, but this, this you've touched her with, it's plain to see. That which you make with your own hands...
     She returns, it's in stone-washed jeans and a button-up shirt - silk; silk has become one of her favorites, of all materials she wears the most, though cotton will always have a strong place in her heart and against her skin. The shirt is a dark forest green, reminiscent of your eyes, cuffs broad and touching just past her wrists, the floppy collar open so that the pink flower can be seen against her skin. On her feet are a pair of the by now ubiquitous bunny slippers - this pair is orange, with jack-o-lantern shaped black felt eyes and earrings made of bats and skulls and flying witches. Instead of fluffy cottontails, each has a wrapped twist of candy of gum glued to its behind.
     Fiona tidies the presents away first, rewarding you with another smile, and then she goes up to you, brushing a hand to your shoulder, moving around you to slide her arms around your neck from behind. "How long for the food? I want to know how much time I've got in which to thoroughly abuse my husband..."

     "...and lamb korma... ditto on the kubla naan and the mango lassi..." he echoes your order to the folks downstairs, grinning and chuckling at something said. His eyes crinkle at the corners, being forever thirty-some-odd. "Right. Knock, leave it at the door if we don't answer. Right. Same card. You're a beauty, Daari. Has that good for nothing man of yours rubbed your feet today? You tell him, no woman should be on her feet with only two weeks... you tell him the boss will come talk to him. Okay. Thank you again..."
     He holds out his cellular phone and peers at it, disconnecting the call right after and then stows it away. "It'll be here in about forty-five, she said. Busy night." You heard the rest. He looks at you, then down to your feet with a twisting smile. "You should find me a pair. Maybe get a pair with fangs," Davydd suggests. He is what he is.
     "Now," he rises with an exhale, "...what sort of abuse am I in for? Are you going to make me watch some really tearjerky movie about a man and a woman destined to be apart but fated to be together," what an ass! "...or ... listen to you talk about your day?" He can't even finish that statement without barking a laugh.
     "I have a few suggestions," Davydd puts his hands to your hips as he comes behind you, his mouth finding your neck. "They're all pretty wretched. What do you have in mind? And...what was that you wanted to talk to me about?" he says, remembering suddenly.

     "I can make you a pair if you like," Fiona retorts lazily, waggling a slipper at you. "But I'll need to know your shoe size. I've never bought clothing for you, you know." Her smile is still warm, though also a little lopsided. You are what you are, indeed.
     "Mmm," she sighs as you approach, as your hands find her hips, your lips her neck, and she leans up along you. "My day was pretty uneventful. Met with my accountant, and there's enough of that - why would you want to hear more than that? He's an accountant. Enough said..." One of your hands is covered - well, touched - with her own. The other drops down to rest alongside your thigh where it's braced behind hers. "I'm open to suggestions, though knowing you, that wouldn't give us time to shower and dress before the food arrives."
     She knows you of old, and still adores you for it; there's a flash of wickedness, covered with a demure look, and then she glances up at you. "Mmm. About that... talking... it, I don't know. Seems silly, right now. You, being so sweet and romantic. It's all far away. Though I suppose I could try to get my mind round to it." Fiona shakes her head slightly, as if to clear her mind of pinkness and romance. "Though on an unrelated note, are you likely to be free any nights this week? I'd like to give you your present when it's prepared."

     "I can make time," he replies. "And ... you know... it's not all about your legs being up in the air. Though, that is a vision. If you have something to say, you should say it. I'll be good. I'll sit on the opposite side of the sofa..." His arms surround you for a big hug, a squeeze and a sway. "Get on the sofa, woman," comes the roll of Welsh at your ear. "You can tell daddy all about it."
     Wickedness Incarnate...
     It has a different ring to it, suddenly...doesn't it...
     His arms lighten their hold, hands sliding across your stomach, to squeeze your waist and then pat your rump again. Go. Sofa. Now. Grinning, Davydd turns, heading for the sofa himself but pausing to get his Guinness along the way.

     There's a breath taken, not so much for the squeeze as the words. Evocative imagery. You do know how to get to her...
     "Bastard," Fiona murmurs as you release her. She shuffles over to the sofa, settling down on the cushion in the corner where arm meets back and drawing up one knee. "You know, we really are amazingly well matched in some ways. I know, I know, I'm being silly and romantic, and you've had over eight hundred years of this. It's only been a short while for us, and it's been ... hectic, but it just feels right. Being with you. All of it. Not just the sex," her lips prim up, "but ..."
     She stows away romantic sweet talk for the moment, making herself focus; it's taking effort. Everything right now is pink flowers and hearts, just like the necklaces you've given her. "As for what it's about," Fiona says slowly, sobering by degrees, shifting to free her hair from behind her, "well, it's ... about you, really. Your ... nature. Your being the Holly King. Sometimes, like now, I tend to separate it from what I know of you, in some ways - not that you stop being it, but sometimes you're darker than at other times. And ... I'm not sure how to explain this. We've never really talked about it - things like, well, your drinking of blood." She shrugs. You drink blood. It is your dietary habit; she's never really had a problem with it, except to be disturbed the once...

     Davydd sits upon the other side of the sofa, and, motioning, requests the presence of your feet, following that motion with the tap of his hand on his thigh. Put 'em here. His expression changes as you mention the subject matter, not in emotion but in understanding. And sympathizing with the nature of your questions.
     "The Holly King... is both a position and a state of being. It's hard to explain," he notes with a peering, intent look. "It is both figurative and literal. In the Celtic pagan religions, there are two halves of the year, two halves of a soul, two halves to the universe. Other philosophies refer to this as yen and yang. Sometimes this is expressed in terms of god and goddess, or the two ... aspects of the masculine energy, we'll say: the Oak King and the Holly King. The Holly King is the king over the dark half of the year, connected with ...primal energies, blood, hunting, but also bounty, harvest and hope. The Oak King presides over the light half of the year, symbolizing fertility, virility, sexuality, strength and valor. And love."
     He plucks the slippers off your feet one by one. "Before... when you first met me... I was stuck in between the two, neither one nor the other, and unable to change. I could only be out at night, the domain of the Holly King, but was trying to be valorous and protective and all of that, trying to force myself into the Oak King role, which was what I was given the markings for."
     Large hands move against your feet, massaging. His thumb moves against the arches of your feet. "Several months ago now, I was moved from a stuck position to a more proper alignment, and my energies have changed accordingly. I have the teeth and lust of a hunter, I still cannot go out in daylight, and I am a king. I have been asked to be a king, some felt I was very tardy and I was almost ...unseated into irrelevancy. But I was given more time, a little more time, to help others who are lost, others who may be stuck. To give myself wholly to that task. Which is why I cannot give myself wholly to you until this task is done and sealed with my own sacrifice."
     Strong and gentle, his hands are both. Light and dark half of the year expressed even there. "My appetite has changed too. And... blood. Blood is the sacrifice that the energy requires. My moods wane with my white moon mistress," a quirk of a smile. "Which is why at the new moon, the dark of the moon, I am at my most... hmmm.... horny and hungry..."

     She gives you her feet, sliding down so that the back of her head is against the armrest, eyes half-closing. "Mmm," Fiona sighs as you take the slippers off and begin to rub. She's listening, go on... she'll just be liquefying while you speak...
     "I'm not upset with you for pursuing whatever tasks you feel are your duty, your calling, Davydd. I'd be more upset if you were trying to be with me and failing - which I think is what was going wrong between us, when you sent me to stay with Rhodri. It felt as if you were trying to drive me away, so that you wouldn't have to maintain the relationship - so that you'd have another thing to point at and go 'see? it doesn't work', or, I don't know. I'm no good at psychology." Fiona speaks quietly, without rancor, explanations being given in calmness. After all, she has no need to be worked up now, with the conclusions reached and decisions made.
     She settles her hands over her stomach, fingers linked together as she relaxes, eyes closing as you continue to rub her feet. "I've always been attracted to you," she admits. "I think I've always been at least a little in love with you, as much as I ran away from it and denied it. I wasn't ready to love; I couldn't believe that I was worth it, that love was worth it, that it could ever end in anything but grief and pain and I would rather immolate myself in confronting every fear but that one. But I couldn't let go of you, either. Couldn't stop calling, couldn't stop thinking about you, even when I started flirting with the idea of romance and love. And none of the men who attracted me were normal men... and the only one I came even close to doing anything with," she sighs, "he reminded me of you. And he was dangerous like you. I've always been a little bit afraid of you and what you represent, even while loving you..."

     "It wasn't that. Well," he sighs, "...not entirely. I didn't send you to Rhodri hoping he'd sweep you off your feet. Which I'm sure he tried to do and apparently succeeded," he smirks at that. "I don't mind that. I'm happy you're happy. When I sent you there I wasn't really sure what was going to happen to me. There are more powerful beings than even you and I. And they were losing their patience with me."
     His hands squeeze your feet, "I have that effect on people, as you know." Davydd looks up from your feet, across your legs and to your face. "I don't mean to scare you, but I know I can't help but do so. At least a little. Every human is afraid of Life and Death. And that is who I am. I am life and I am death. I put the butterflies in your stomach, like a rollercoaster." For the same reasons. Davydd looks back to your feet. "I drink blood. I like it. I don't pack away the beef pasties like I used to." He smiles a little. "Try not to be worried, love."

     "I'm not ... worried, as such. Not really." Fiona smiles a little as well. "Most of the time, anyway. I admit you worried me that time that you cut me open. I wasn't expecting it. I was scared then, and pissed, and hurt. But I do trust you. A lot. Enough, obviously, to stay with you - enough to let you do it again."
     She opens her eyes, one hand traveling back up along her frame to the necklace, to touch it with one fingertip. "You've told me there are other beings... mostly to stay away from them, which so far I mostly seem to have managed. Mostly. Nobody's perfect, right? But I'm not very interested in them - they don't seem interested in me either, and I've got my own stuff to bother with. No, this is about you, and me..."
     That could be good or it could be bad and likely it will raise an eyebrow, and she knows it; she reddens just a little, hand going up to her ear, past it to fiddle with her hair. "I know how you make me feel when you're all Holly King-ish. It's something you've always had, a bit. And yes, it scares me. And it turns me on. But I always seem to ... draw back a little bit, and that bothers me - because I don't like running away from things that scare me, Davydd. I've done that enough, I shouldn't be doing it now. But I don't know how to go about confronting it - I mean, deliberately trying to incite you, entirely aside from being a hurtful, hateful sort of thing for me to do, also seems pretty damn stupid."

     He looks at you for an unblinking eternity -- just a minute without blinking, but it seems like forever. His face registers your worry and fear. "I apologize for that. I... have to have it, that sacrifice. I now... cannot live without it. It is... replacing?" if that's the right word, "... the energy I would gain from simple molecules and atoms. Now, it really must come with blood for me to be able to convert it properly. Fortunately, I do not need it very often, monthly is sufficient. And only at the dark of the moon."
     He makes a face when you mention other beings. It's a kind of half frown drizzling off into evenness. How to explain it? "There are many different beings on the earth, in all its incarnations. More universes than one. There are those who are more like I am now than as I was. And, yes, largely they should be avoided. You've... managed less well than you know, but fared better than I would have imagined." Yes, they've been all around you, as I am around you now.
     "I am sorry to have frightened you," he says, that half-frown gone. "I don't know how to tell you how to confront your own fear. Just... that I would never hurt you in my right mind, never intentionally. The ritual bleeding notwithstanding. I should have asked you first. I am sorry. It was an ... initiation of sorts. I thought by it being magical or ritualistic that it would make it less scary for you. More meaningful. And ... my ...appetite requires it."

     "You don't need to apologize. Stop it." Fiona smiles at you again, a slow, small smile, and she shifts position. She leans forward, dropping both hands onto your shoulders and then hauling herself over your lap, almost to the other side of you, draping across you and against you comfortably. "Davydd, I don't mind it. What bothers me about it is my own reaction to it - I don't know if I'm explaining this well. Let me try again."
     She props herself up against your shoulder and the back of the couch, moving up next to you more than on you now, a small frown of concentration on her features. "I work hard to confront my fears. I understand ritual, in some ways - that's why I wasn't angry with you for cutting me. Jumping off of that bridge was, for me, a ritual of sorts. But - it wasn't the drinking of blood which frightened me about you. It still isn't. I trust you. I know that with you I'm as safe as with anyone - safer than most."
     One hand rises into the air, hesitating, then drops back down to her knee. "Yes, you frighten me in some ways, but ... it isn't the blood-drinking, not exactly. It's what's in you. And I love you, both despite and for that. But I want to understand it better, both so I can understand myself and you - and because I don't think I'd be a very good wife or queen or partner or whatever if I didn't make that effort." Blue eyes lift to yours, head canting to one side as if in question. "You said something about high kings and - stuff, the other night. I was a bit too ... out of it to ask about that, but I do want to do the best I can for you, Davydd."
     Fiona sighs gustily, sprawling back and stretching her arms up over her head. "As for - these other beings," she resumes, "I'm sorry if I've - exposed things I shouldn't have. I'll try to be careful, though it doesn't seem to matter how much I try. Things just happen." She shrugs. They always have.

     His eyes go wide and his hands wave at you. "Well, of course I fucking owe you an apology. I cut you with a knife and pooled your blood in a glass and drank it with orgiastic pleasure, imagining you sucking me off while I bathe in it," he has to laugh at that, no matter how true it is. "Of course I owe you an apology. It stands," he waves, his voice firming like cement in finality. Not another word!
     "Sad to say," Davydd notes, peering down at you. "This may be true. And you can't avoid such creatures. You shouldn't try. It's pointless anyway. And... besides... you're obviously good at avoiding the pitfalls of associating with them. Why change now? You've a winning streak. And you never fuck with a winning streak..."
     A thick arm wraps around you, pulling you in close in to him, the sweater a soft layer over a hard, warm form. "It's not what's in me," he whispers close to you. "It's what I am. The Dark Woods, the pricking of your skin, the rise of your soft, white hair on the back of your neck. The bumps on your arms at the chill. That is... who I am, darlin'. But I'm not evil. And I'm not going to harm you. I'd sooner leave you, and break your heart, than to ever do such a thing. Now, how you convince yourself ... or how you deal with it?" Great shoulders roll. "I don't know. Time, seeing me when we can see one another, proof in truth. Maybe that will be enough."

     "Hmf..." Fiona closes her eyes, leaning in against you with a contented sound behind the protest. "You won't always get away with that," she mutters, "but I'm really disinclined to argue with you right now. You and your damned sweet romantic considerate presents..." Her hand comes up to touch the budded pink diamonds, her cheek falling against your shoulder.
     "As long as the winning streak lasts," she adds a bit wryly. But she sees no reason why it should not. She knows too little to be truly afraid, in this situation. It is almost of no interest to her, compared to other topics in particular. "Anyway, back on topic..."
     Her other hand goes not to her knee but to yours, affectionate caress even as she shivers a little as you whisper. "I know you're not evil. And I'm not afraid you're going to hurt me - I was, once, but even then I wasn't afraid you were going to hurt me physically. I ... was afraid you'd - not that you'd stop loving me, exactly, but that loving me wouldn't be enough. That your other issues, for lack of a better word, would be stronger than any feelings we had for each other, for any commitment." Fiona glances up, looking to your face, gaze direct and honest. "I was insecure. I knew you weren't Paul, of course. But I was insecure, and you kept talking about how you would sooner or later most probably be with other women, and I didn't know how to handle that. That was what really hurt - the thought that you would break my heart. But I'm past that now." Funny how sleeping with another man killed that particular fear.
     "It isn't ... oh, never mind." Fiona frowns, giving up on it, it seems. "I'll think about it and try to identify it. I just know there's something there, that I feel like I need to examine and confront. But I don't know what it is. Maybe it's just that I am so damn young compared to you. I just ... I still want to crawl into your skin and lose myself in you, you know." A reluctant grin tugs up at the corners of her mouth, hand lifting to half-furl against your collar. "I don't think I could produce enough blood for you to bathe in, you gigantic Welsh git. But I could probably arrange to be on my knees while you've got a glass. If nothing else, I can make two of me, you know..."

     "That is right. You can do that. I like it when you do that," he rumbles low and long. He thinks of it for a moment. The whirring gears of his dirty mind click and clack with it, and a grin leaps onto his mouth. "Let's save it for Samhain, high holy day." He laughs, eyes going wide again. Such delight!
     Such wicked delight...
     "Listen," Davydd says, serious tone returning. "...romantic gestures aside, we should keep talking. I think this is the most we've talked in a while. We're always... grabbing on, tearing sheets, fucking like wild beasts," his fingers tickle at your waist with a high grin slanting. "And... I almost fucked it up. For everyone. Maybe... one day... I can tell you how much. How foolish I was. How fortunate I am that anyone still loves me at all. But... you do... I'm still here, and if I'm not mistaken, that's our food coming up the stairs..."
     It is indeed. After a few more moments, even you can hear it. Davydd stands as hands brush on the other side of the door, even before the next knock. "Coming!" The man has a pair of lungs as big as his...well... he's capable of loud noises as you well know. And sometimes, yelling that very thing at you. He opens the door with a flair and takes the bags. "Ah, danke, Saleme... good to see you again as well. Here, this is for you."
     "Thank you, boss," the delivery boy says. Yes, Davydd's well known at Pashmina's...

     Fiona laughs, rising to her feet more slowly than you, trailing behind you with a brief salute offered - and a beaming smile - to the delivery boy. She's lived here long enough that by now she knows most of them at least by sight. "No way that was forty-five minutes," she says with a grin. "You lot spoil us..."
     Once the door is closed and locked, she wanders into the kitchen to get a pile of plates, topping the pile with silverware and cloth napkins. The plates are cobalt blue, a vaguely Celtic, vaguely Indian design etched around the rims in silver. "I like to spoil you, you know," Fiona remarks. It's said lightly, but there's seriousness underneath. "Just, I don't really know how to. You're much more experienced than I am, and it isn't as if I can really buy you things - anything you want, you'll have already bought for yourself, or someone with more money than me will have given it to you. All I can do is keep trying to show you how much I love you by what I do."
     And yet, she did say she has something planned as a gift for you before the weekend...
     She reaches the table and begins laying out the plates as you deal with the bags; large plates for main courses, smaller plates for the naan and condiments. "I'm glad you're still here. Almost only counts in horseshoes and tactical nuclear devices. You're here, and I'm here, and you were my first, and you still are someone I adore beyond reason. Most of the time," Fiona stops to look at you, moving to one of the chairs and placing both hands on the back of it, "it's just that. Sometimes, it changes into things I don't recognise except with my stomach and the base of my spine - it's religion and sex and, well, maybe it's tied into the magic, but I do respect you. I look up to you. I'd follow you anywhere, you know." She reddens slightly, looking down and brushing her hair back with one hand. "Anyway... shall we eat?"

     "I've never been one for gifts. I like to give them, but I'm never partial to receiving any. So, when I get something, it's always a surprise and it's always welcomed. You don't need to compete with Time, Fiona. You just need to be who you are, and give me things you think I'd like, if you choose to get me things at all. Shite, I'll settle for a cold beer out of the blue, a surprise blowjob, or warm feet in bed. I'm a simple man. Really."
     He grins at you, bringing the food over with him. Naan and curry, lamb and sweet breads are pulled out one by one. "Who'd ever guess that you'd be so hopelessly devoted to me, me? Of all people. But thank you," Davydd notes, leaning in with a smile. "I appreciate it. And the sex is phenomenal, isn't it?" He cackles with a great grin, it sets his green eyes on fire. "You're so... mmm... small and warm. I get my jollies just thinking about your little kitten sounds, cath-fach," he murmurs.
     And he leers. Rakes his eyes right down the length of you from head to toe. And makes sure you see him doing it, too...
     "You shouldn't spoil me. I'm a wretched man. It'll only encourage me," Davydd teases, casting a wink at you as he puts your plate of food together first. "There you are, love. Eat up. You'll be needing all that energy later tonight..."

     Fiona reddens again, settling into her seat and avoiding direct acknowledgment of that look you give her. It warms her, though; you can almost see the tracing of heat in her, radiant through blood vessels to show in her skin : the outward signal of the inwards reaction. "Just pass the damn lassi, Davydd..."
     She isn't angry, though, and it shows a moment later. "I do like it when you call me that," she murmurs, pulling the seasoned rice closer and spooning up a generous helping for herself. "And yes, the sex is ... well, it sometimes makes me wonder why I spent so long avoiding it. But I think things happened in their right time. If we hadn't spend two years running away from each other, we never would've realized how much we mean to each other, I think. What we've been through has made us more ... ourselves."
     She isn't as poetic as you and your son, is she? But she makes up for it in other ways. Lamb korma is dumped on top of seasoned rice, naan put on her plate and her fork picked up to stir the rice and sauce together a bit around the edges. "By the way... and I hope this isn't a bad time to talk to you about it, but there was something else. Rhodri and I have an offer for you." An offer you can't refuse?

     "Now I'm worried," he notes, food filling his plate, fiery eyebrows arching upward. "You and he... have an ...offer? For me?" Lips curl as he takes his plate to the sofa, setting it down on the coffee table as he reaches for his beer. "Oh, sweet, can you get me another Guinness," he leans back on the sofa, looking at you bent back as he is. "This is gettin' a bit low, and a bit warm."
     "So..." he pauses to swallow somewhere in there, "...what's the big idea? You can talk to me about anything, s'alright." Davydd is still a man of many appetites, all of them large. For all his goins-on about not eating as he used to, he's shoveling in the curry well enough.
     Dark eyes flicker over to you, a flash of lightning through the trees. "I'm glad you waited for me. I like ...showing you things. Only problem is now, you're going to be getting it from both ends." Riot! Ha! He grins suddenly at the accidental pun and then cackles.

     "Sure." Fiona rises to her feet, going back into her small kitchen with a certain warmth in her smile for you as she passes. It'll get old, no doubt, but right now she is deriving a certain satisfaction in you being there for her to bring beer for. A cabinet opens, then closes again, and she returns with a familiar-looking tall black can. She leans over your shoulder to set it to your left, brushing her lips against the back of your head as she does so.
     "Bastard," Fiona murmurs, hands falling to your shoulders and squeezing once, then releasing as she returns to her own seat, her own plate. "I'm glad I waited too, even if. If nothing else, the two of you have the sexual expertise down cold. Though I really shouldn't have stopped to do the math on that one. I try not to think about it." She reclaims her fork, busying herself with joining the Clean Plate Club - she's got to try and keep up with you, after all.
     "As for what the big idea is... mm. This is good." Mango lassi, lamb korma, naan. Fiona sighs contentedly, picking up her napkin to wipe her mouth and suppress a burp. "I'll have to be careful not to get fat, I've been eating too much lately, not used to actually getting three meals a day. - The big idea, right. Would you like to ... be with us on the wedding night?"
     Despite her casual tone, despite the discussions of it, despite everything - Fiona blushes, and she can't look at your face even as curious as she is as to how you'll react. The lassi's picked back up, gulped at, set back down, but she can't quite come up with words to hurl into the gap as she usually might. The offer is left to fend for itself, just as she has to fend for herself with her reaction to you.

     He considers it for a moment, and then he looks to you. "It's your wedding night. What do you think? What do you want? I mean, it's the night you're pledging your vow to him. The first night... it's a meaningful thing. Even if you've already slept together. I don't want to intrude on that. I'm flattered, however." Since you were my 'wife' first.
     He sits back with some of the naan, settling back with his new beer. Ah, sweet sweet beer. "How do you really feel about it? I know you..." he can't help the look, the curl of a smile, "... enjoyed it with both of us. I imagine it would make for a very ... memorable night..."
     Have you really thought about this?
     "Maybe after watching you marry him, I'll want to fuck you on the dancefloor, there's really no telling," Davydd makes a gesture with the bread and smiles. "So... sure... I'm game to join in. If you really want that on your wedding night. You going to keep your veil and dress on?"

     "It will all be as if it were new. Doesn't matter how often I've been with you," Fiona mumbles it past a mouthful of lamb, still not looking at you directly. It isn't the spices that are making her so flushed. But your questions are only reasonable; she can't just throw them away, or fail to answer them. She sighs, pushing her plate away for a moment, pacing herself on the eating and the speaking.
     "I want you there, if you're comfortable with it," Fiona says carefully, after a pause in which her thoughts are rearranged. "Yes, I enjoyed it with ... both of you ... but that's partly because you both worked very hard to make sure that I would. Because of how you feel about me. I can't think about it without realizing it, and feeling my heart contract a little around your names. Rhodri will have me to himself for the honeymoon. Just as when your turn comes," there's a glint to blue eyes, lips curving at the edges, "I'd expect you to extend him the same courtesy, followed by the same ... greed."
     She could say more on that, but instead alters course again, doubling back mentally as well as verbally. "I'm going to be getting married publicly three times. Once in front of my family, once in front of the courts, and then when you ascend to your position. I want you there for both of the ones that don't directly involve you being up there with me, because as much as I give myself to Rhodri, I have and will give myself to you. I'm not saying that every single thing I do is yours to pick at, but marriage? If my husbands can't be involved in that, what's the point of marrying?"
     Her napkin is balled up and hurled at your head with a faint quirk of mischief. "Considering where we've decided to hold the wedding, pending your approval, of course, probably the dress will be on, yes. Though I'll arrange for something to be on underneath it as well. After a certain amount of thought - and examining the guest lists - we were rather thinking it'd be best to have the wedding at Powis. Would you like me to leave on the dress and veil? Or should I change into something a little less confining, first?"

     Powis...
     He was about to rattle off a thousand horrible things, but pauses his retort for another blinking look. That's two this evening, if you're keeping score. "I would be very honored if you married in Powis. I... had no idea it was up for consideration. I would have offered it, but I thought your mother might be trying for Buckingham Palace."
     He hasn't met her and already he knows...
     The smile is gorgeous, glinting, it casts its sparks on the air between you and your skin. Without physical touch, he nips and bites, kisses and claims. "You'll have the master suites that night. And the master in them," he confirms it in a low sound. It might be foreboding, that sound, to anyone but you. "And... yes," Davydd grins suddenly, "... keep on the gown and veil. Especially the veil...I've always wanted to ravish a bride... next best thing to knocking a bride up before the wedding..."
     He laughs as he's beaned in the noggin. He could have ducked, perhaps, but he's let you have one, as they say. "I will be ... happy to hold up your ...train..." He crooks his finger at you. Come here. "The castle will look amazing for you, that I guarantee. No expense, cariad, shall be spared. The gardens, the aviary, the ballroom shall be a ballroom once more, lodgings for your guests, friends and family."
     Can you tell he's thrilled?
     "And not to make it about me, but it does make it easier for me, with my insane schedule. Who knows... maybe you'll even have time for a little... bachelorette fling, before you walk down the aisle?"

     "I'm glad you like the idea... it was that or have mother try for Westminster, yes, but," Fiona shrugs, seeming nonchalant, "Powis would be about as hard for most people to get permission, wouldn't they? So it's just as much a status symbol, it gets your people happy with me, and it irritates my mother. And of course, there's travel time for you to be considered. Can't have you getting a sunburn, can we?"
     Underneath it, you can see she isn't nearly as nonchalant as she pretends; the slight tension in the way she held herself, the way those tensed muscles go slack at your reaction, the smile that she turns on you - she has been doing a lot of smiling lately, hasn't she? It renders her indescribable. "Bachelorette fling? What, and mess up my gown? But I am glad you're pleased..." She glances at that crooked finger, ignoring it for a moment as she rearranges the dishes and leftover foodstuff to be a little less spread out, a little less precarious. "And ... I'm glad you want to be there, Davydd. I want you."
     It could be taken so many ways, and she means them all, her voice lowered as she says it, the glow still on her skin. Her chair eases back; it's as if she's pacing herself again, this time not with the food but with you, and she circles around the table again to reach your side. "Someday," Fiona murmurs, "I need to figure out what it is about you that makes me react like this. You two really are very different. Incomparably so. I like it that way, but I do find myself trying to figure out my reactions to you." She offers you her hand, her other hand touching those pink diamonds again, smile slightly tremulous. "I think you are my dream, sometimes."

Posted by rowan at December 26, 2004 07:09 PM