You were wearing a chiffon scarf. Something like a memory. In London's air, it was lifting from your fingertips, momentarily caught. Nearly lifted away just a moment before it was tied. And were you relieved you brought it? When you caught sight of the car that seems more made for you than me.
     There was a smile at the door. A cordial kiss at the car. I don't remember leaving London after that...
     I only remember the corners of the scarf catching against the racing air as we were on the open road.
     I didn't think about the words that tumbled from my lips. They just came of their own. Of destinations. Of sights. And there was music -- I can't drive without it -- but it was low. I would rather hear you than Alan Stivell...
     England passed by in streaks of racing green along the side. Flat country to the start of hills. And as we cut to the northwest, heading straight for Powys, there was a distant sight of the start of mountains. And suddenly... for the first time maybe ever... I wished for daylight. I wish I could show you what she looks like in the sun...
     It was late, when first we were surrounded by near complete darkness. And I grinned. It was the first time in a year that I had seen so many stars. And the climb. You felt it, you had to. As we left the flats and English plains aside, and arrived into the hills and the mountains of Powys.
     It was late... no, it was early... when climbing roads turned winding, and a valley gave the first view of a more modern ediface sitting upon a grand hill. Powis Castle. The first stop on the short trip...
     But even though it's night, Wales is not dulled. Her colors are bright. There, in evidence all around. In trees of oak and birch, holly and more, the approach of summer is vividly displayed, and the countryside is of high hills, twisting roads that go behind the trees to where the nearest village lies. But to the casual eyes, it is Wales Unobstructed.
     Hardy... but beautiful...
     Welcoming... but wild...
     And you were shown to chambers to refresh after the long drive -- a luxurious bath that runs between the suite of two bedchambers. Nothing assumed or presumed. But, in their proximity, the hint of possibility.
     There is a shared sitting room between them also. Wood accents, but with touches of more refined centuries. The furnishings are grand, the carpet beneath them simple. And the lamps that are lit highlight the paintings on the wall. Hunting scenes, Medieval. A Tapestry or two. And books. Old texts. Book of Hours, hunting and falconry manuals from the first days of printing. And even before that.
     And there is a cart of tea, there is even food. And there is Davydd without his jacket and with his hair back in place. Waiting for you. Standing. Some part of him in motion. One hand holding a small book. The other hand... doesn't know what to do with itself.
     And again, here we are. Just two hours to dawn. What will we do, Sandrine, when we have a whole night and both of us are still...

     "Davydd," Sandrine calls, coming through the doorway from her chambers, "...it really is all so splendid!" Pink Chanel suit fitted her well on the drive with a pink chiffon scarf. Now, the tailored coat has been put away, leaving a cream shirt that fades gently at the collar and pales into her skin. Pink skirt continues to hug her waist and thighs. And stockings. What woman would be without silk ones? Pink shoes with small gold buckles that shine grace the floor under foot.
     And all has been put back into place. Sandrine laughed as the chiffon fluttered around her face, threatening to fly away at any moment. Quick hands caught the tendrils, and she leaned into you in gales of amusement. Copper hair that once peeked from chiffon cover has been tamed again. "I don't think I've been in such splendor in a while...you know urban living," she waves with undulating hand, manicured nails that match her color. "Thank you for being patient," hand motions to the open door, "I needed that," she sighs.
     "You are a wonderful driving companion," she murmurs, moving over to inspect one of the tapestries. No reverie here, Sandrine tips her head, examining the fabric with almost analytical interest. "And your car!" she smiles, "I...well...I had not gone so fast in a long time." The tapestry is left behind, and she walks towards you, shoes tapping upon the floor.
     "Thank you for a lovely time," Sandrine grins, hand alighting at your elbow.

     The book closed with a snap -- far harder than it should be, as it's older than the manor -- when he heard you. And it did not take long for the smile. Have you learned in this short time -- or did you know before? -- that it never does? But the book is set aside as you come in. No time for reading now...
     You learned that laughter lives, can live, exuberant in those eyes and he can roar with it. Or it can come in a whisper, like something secret between you. Something secret. You hear it again at the touch of your hand on his elbow.
     And his hand covers yours. A lean in, a wink. And there in those eyes, something Wales itself conveys in the surrounding hills -- and the light of humor. "I've never had a better drive -- you are Lady Luck personified. Not a single sheep crossing the whole way." Chuckling, "...and as promised I even stayed between the lines." Most of the time. Until the smaller Welsh roads appeared, and there were no lines. Only hedges.
     Davydd looks away from you a moment -- barely more than that -- eyes tracing familiar paths around the sitting room. "Diolch," he whispers in his own tongue. "I don't get here often enough..." likely less in the future. "But..." and his eyes return to you in portions of forest and emerald, and the smile is a living lilt. "...it is good to have a secreted place, aye? To come to now and again."
     And his hand hasn't moved from yours, instead fingers busy themselves there. Absently. Like one who is forgetting he's touching, mind traveling onward. And his touch is...
     Hardy...but beautiful...
     Welcoming...but wild...
     There are memories of a far older Wales in their touch. "Did I drive too fast for you to get a proper introduction to the countryside...?" A fiery brow lifts. "I will go slower next time," next time. Tomorrow, when we head to Gwynedd? Or on some other occasion. Some later occasion, when you return with him. When he hopes you returns with him.

     She minds not your hand, you see. Sandrine's free hand lands at your arm. "You did as you said," she affirms softly, close, but not so close to be flush with you. "I have learned to take you at your word." Her blue eyes twinkle and she laughs lightly, just to satisfy her humor.
     "Hopefully," and this is the first time she mentions politic, "...things in the future will not take you from your home. You live in London," she leans in to give the secret, "...but this," her eyes lifting, "...this is you. This is your home. London...is lucky to have you around," especially me, I hope, "Even if...this is your secret place." The smile rises again politely.
     Sandrine continues to stand, the lighthearted repartee slipping into something more somber. She still remains with you, hand over hand, enjoying the closeness and letting you see such. Lips part to speak, but then she closes them, leaving your last comment unanswered.

     Politics are easy to forget. Amazing, isn't it. What can be dropped at a moment's notice. Or less. Politics are dropped, but not your hand. And close as he is, and still with the smile -- when is it ever gone, may you wonder -- he leans in. "I will have to find a closer sanctuary," comes the low lilt of his voice. Welsh rides high upon it now, though it's English he speaks.
     Maybe you have a few suggestions...
     And there are quiet moments, but they are not empty. Davydd takes your hand into his and lifts it to his lips. A press there, warmly, lightly, then it's gone.
     That makes two tonight...
     London is easy to forget. Look, there now it's gone. And he watches you, you watching him. And in the brief interlude of silence, he feels his upon your skin, your skin welcoming him there. Maybe I've already found it...
     Sanctuary...
     Here. His fingers move against your fingers...
     Or... maybe it's here...
     And he leans in, and he holds a moment. Just a moment. And closer as he is, you can see the interchange of bronze and copper. Close as he is, you can see the variance of color in his green eyes. And close as he is, the kiss is no surprise.

     Her lips are welcoming, if trembling. Sandrine does not retreat from the press of your lips, but neither do her arms fly about your neck. Instead, her fingers curl a little tighter around your hand, as if seeking something to calm her and give support.
     It is true, she engages you in a kiss. The pleasure of it revealed in the turn of her head, the touch of her nose with yours.
     Ever closer.
     Blue eyes close, needing not to see it all. She has dreamed this before. There is practice in her lips, a wandering there in their soft and full caress.
     It is like I thought. My hand is wavering a little. I can feel it.
     "Davydd," Sandrine whispers, withdrawing just enough to speak, to move her lips upon yours. It is a request to pause, even if she does not go so very far.

     I do not remember the first time I saw you at one of Tattinger's parties. They were wild events, even if quietly. Brilliance of the Toreador, but not without debates. And always, always, my voice was lifted when it came to debating. Such is the way of things when you grow up having to get a word in over older brothers...
     But I remember one night, someone introduced you, but I already knew you. Of you. I remember Rose was there, and she kept talking. And I smiled and said hello. And it was like that for years. Parties, conversations. Glimpses, you know. Moments you don't remember until much later. The house of Memory is in your lips. And I find myself there.
     I find myself...
     It takes him a moment to hear his name, but the kiss is parted at the edge of your words. Syllables spoken, mouth to mouth were kisses in their own right. But even though he lets your lips free, he still holds your hand.
     The moment shouldn't be too weighted, so he smiles. Right there, just a moment from your own mouth. It's not a broad grin, or a devil's smile, it's just a warm ease. I liked the feel of your mouth. He starts to say Hello, like he's done on several previous occasions. But his lips only part. Nothing comes out.
     That's a first for Llewelyn.

     She hesitates, blue eyes open to see your affable smile. So polite you are, to listen to a woman's excited trepidation, not mistaking it for something more coy, more manipulative.
     "You...never said where...we were going tomorrow..."
     Such a simple expression of nervousness. Sandrine is skittish, but not so ready to run away. Her lips pull in a familiar smile, tingued with something more serious and now suddenly aware.
     The Moment is Now.
     "Sorry," Sandrine whispers, eyes dropping from yours. Have I made a mistake? I shouldn't have said anything. Silly woman. You acted like an inexperienced teenager.

     He doesn't think to think that it could be anything other than what it is. A pause, a moment to catch up. Maybe he wouldn't make a good prince afterall. He doesn't look for machinations in this. Those who play him... well...
     Who would ever think to play Llewelyn with a kiss? His diplomacy and politic has nothing to do with the length of his sceptre or the legendary status of his bed. No. No, that is not said of Davydd. So there is no tactic in it -- not even a glimmer in his mind that such a thing is possible.
     Nor is there anything he has spied of a teasing kind of woman. One who shows one thing to get what she wants, and then another once held. Whatever it is... and Davydd would be the first to say he doesn't know...whatever it is, it isn't hollow.
     "I thought," he says, his look not changing. His expression not altering. No move to swallow you up or sweep you off, "...we'd stay in Powys for a night... tonight and tomorrow," he adds. "Tomorrow, I thought we would ...dedicate it to the gardens. I want to hear you tell me what my garden grows," There is a sound in chest and throat. It would have been a chuckle, were he not so distracted. "That is... if you'd like...or... we can ..." He pauses here a moment, eyes on your lips. He shakes his head a little, barely even a motion, "We can do whatever you like, Sandrine. Whatever you'd like would please me..."
     And then his words end, as if he meant to finish them with something else. And the moment comes again. But slower. Slowly. Not too hesitant, and yet not to rush you. A tilt of his head and there is a pause.
     And then he remembers again in the warm brush of lips to lips. I find myself here, again...

     You do understand. Sandrine smiles at the notion of staying put for a night or two and exploring gardens. You have found her greatest enjoyment. At that, she nods eagerly, the nervousness evaporating quickly.
     But at the words of her pleasure being yours, she once more stills her exuberance. Sandrine's fingers flutter only in the preternatural perceptions of one as yourself. You move her. The kiss is rejoined, this time with allowance to enjoy given freely. Her eyes close and her lips part gently, closing in the sweetest of pulls against your mouth.
     "Maybe," she whispers, parting only again to speak, "...we should walk...and see the tapestries?" If there are others. "I would like...to hear about Powys," the name said with deliberate syllables.

     Now?
     There is a grin, a slight slant it takes on its spreading way. It is a near brush of your lips again -- for he has not moved far since the kiss was parted. "Of course," and his expression brightens, warms, "... there are some in the main hall... I have one dating to the time of Edward I...and, as for Powys," he pauses here, his hands lifting, taking both of your smaller into his larger, twin fingers twining. "Old stories or new?"
     What is this that has gotten beneath my skin...
     What is this that I feel in your fingers...
     Can you feel the reverberation that returns? The motion only an immortal and one of your Family's perception could detect. It draws me back to here...
     To your mouth. I cannot help it. And I don't want to. "Do you ..." Davydd speaks against your mouth, his eyes closing. "...want to see the tapestries tonight..." A pause. A grin. "Morning...or..." Or...
     Shall I show you the tapestries in the bedroom. I want to say this. But... you're not Veronique. You're not Rose. You're not the thousand women I've known over the last few years. And more. And I can't quip the lines. I can...only be me. With you.

     Ah, but she colors this one! A flush begins somewhere in the angled cleave of her blouse, rising in patches at her neck and shoulders, ending in roseate cheeks. Sandrine turns to look past you, unable to hide the blushing grin. Finally does one of her hands leave yours, lifting upright to hide her lips and nose. She stifles the laugh poorly, her shoulder and shirt shuddering.
     After a second, Sandrine's hand drops. She must give an answer to the question you've posed that was somewhere in the back of her mind. You've plucked it out and shown it to her.
     "I...well...we do not have to see them now," she says softly, still blushing, "...Davydd! What am I supposed to say?" she half-laughs, shaking her head while unable to look at your face.

     "You are supposed to say No, Davydd," his voice softening as he leans in, trying to capture your look again, "...tomorrow will be fine. This is good," devil. He laughs quietly, at himself, "...I'm sorry," a breath upon the edge of laughter. "Lovely shade," the hand you freed lifts to your face. A brush of the back of his hand to the side of your face, your neck.
     No, no tapestries tonight. Unless we're going to be wrapped up in one.
     And that can be arranged...
     Davydd tilts his head, "I'm not so good with the flirting words," oh really, "but... I have to say, I did not think... and I'm being honest..." he protests mid-flirting, ah, vintage Davydd, "... that you could be more beautiful, but then I saw you blush..." He even winces a little, but with a playful smile. "Am I terrible?"
     It's asked, as if you couldn't but agree.

     When her skin is touched, Sandrine's laughter quiets. There is no mistaking how you make her feel. It shows upon her body, in her eyes, in the silence.
     "You..." she says gently, hair brilliant in the manor's dimness, "...are not terrible. If..." her eyes meet yours, "...I had ever thought so, I would not be here with you." Frankly said.
     She swallows, something weighty to follow. There is no chance of mistaking the instant. Innocent interest must give way to what is placed before you both. "Maybe...it's better to see the tapestries tomorrow then," her voice low. "I...should turn in. It has been a long evening."

     He touches your skin again. Another brush, the softer backs of fingers against your cheek and neck. He watches his fingers' progression. And then his hand turns, and fingertips linger against strawberry blonde hair. Reverie has returned.
     The reverie cannot be helped. And then again is the return of the deep silence. Quiet that is full. Of study. Of energy.
     "Tomorrow," Davydd concurs, voice quiet. And there is a single nod. We will see them.
     He wakes with a start, his hand moving away, returning to his side. Seeking out your hand again. I want to say... will you stay with me? But I do not want to ... rush it. There's no need to rush it. I see it in you. Do you see it in me? Davydd smiles, the warmth growing in his features, almost golden. "Aye, tis late, Sandrine... and a long, wild ride it was from London..." I should let you go.
     But my fingers aren't as considerate as my heart. They linger.
     He won't ask it. But it echoes from his lips, in warmth there against your own. Another kiss, the last for the night? -- brushes at your mouth, and this time there is a little pull.
     You tremble like a dove. I do not want to frighten you off. I have to remember...
     I have to remember how to handle a dove. Slow hands, Llewelyn. Slow hands and slow movements. Soft voice and a soothing warmth. And then you'll have your bird in the hand, boyo. You used to catch them, remember... when you were young...

     She leans into the kiss you draw forth, not so fast to release your hands either. But once the kiss is parted, Sandrine reluctantly lowers her hands, freeing them from you. "Tomorrow," she whispers, glad for it. It could not come too soon.
     "I'll say good morning then," Sandrine cheerfully tries, she taking a half-step back, breaking the closeness. A slight draw to ease comfortably back into her own space without you. I'll think about you, her eyes say, eagerly gathering a long look. A smile follow.
     "Thank you...for a wonderful evening...and night."

     "Diolch," he says, and the last taste of you is held upon his lower lip, tugged upon by front teeth. And the smile returns, "Nos da..." Good night. "And it was a wonderful evening, we'll have another one tomorrow," the last part whispered.
     Secrets... or supposed secrets... or maybe it's prophecy? ... is big with Llewelyn. And he folds his arms against his chest, staying still to watch you go. And the warrior's build is in that motion most evident, as if you hadn't had indications of it before, especially as near to him as you were. "If you need anything before morning takes you," Davydd murmurs, "I'm right across the hall. I usually wait until the first hour of dawn..." And who says the old go to bed early and wake up late.
     I will watch you go, and I will be awake for another hour... no... more... thinking about it all. The drive. The laughter. The kiss...
     The way your chiffon scarf caught the air like a phantom and was almost lifted from your fingertips. Spectral. Beautiful.

     "Alright, thanks," Sandrine replies. She turns about and walks with gentle steps towards her door. Once there, she moves within, turning around on light feet to see you. A smile draws across her face, almost...relieved. As if things are even better than she might have hoped.
     "Nos..da..?" she tries, grinning at the attempt. "Gihrd Noht," she counters, something Germanic but easily understood. Graceful hands clasp the doorknob and edge of the door, pushing it closed slowly. Behind it, her face turns downward until it is no longer seen, and the door clicks closed.

     And when you're out of sight...?
     Eyes go to heaven and the heel of his hand comes against his forehead. Duw, what is going on in that head, Llewelyn? A gorgeous woman there, you in here...
     But the heel of his hand presses against the third eye and he closes his eyes. And the mouth that echoes with the last kiss forms a smile. Davydd exhales, hand raking red hair and then falling, capturing the small book again. And he carries it with him to the adjoining chamber. A last look over a broad shoulder. He cannot see you, but he can feel you there.
     And this is how it will be, throughout the remainder of darkness. Two rooms separated by a stretch of luxurious bath. Two doors reverberating with energy. As he lies upon his bed, book folded against his chest, eyes closed, his energy unfolded.
     It fades when dawn comes but it never falls away altogether.

Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 11:51 PM