Commander Izzard. I am heading back for the ship. We will remain in dock until high tide tomorrow evening. Please notify the other ships. His commands issue silently upon the air, following the air currents to the hollow of his commander's ear. But any who might spy the future High King, Crown Prince Gruffydd, as he walks he corridors of Queen Anna's keep would think him, at best, daydreaming.
...While eating a biscuit...
He is in no particular hurry - he seldom is. He has his mother's serenity. When he is in motion, he appears to walk in dreams while the world spins around him in a hectic dervish. And he is untroubled by it.
As he walks, his attire transforms...
He could have changed at any time, this is true. So in his quiet passing, he takes on the vestiges of the Sailing Prince. The captain's coat - his own, not his father's - sits heavily on his broad shoulders, the rich purple and royal blue velvet and brocades echoing anachronistically -- but traditionally -- the era of the tall ships. The breeches are likewise velvet -- he has had enough of leather today, and wet leather at that! -- and of a deep blue that disappears, sinking like a waterfall, into the cavalier captain's boots. On his head, the tricorn hat and the iridescent peacock veil that hides his nose and mouth.
The biscuit is left for later. Gruffydd will have that with his tea when he gets back to The Draigamor.
You are being watched, prince of princes, from shadows which contain eyes of varying purpose but singular scrutiny. Here and there you are still ignored; lovers, sated now with the fulfillment of passions spent, cling to one another preparatory to rising to their varied beds. But none of those eyes presently turn to you.
You have time to reach the castle gates. But you are watched, even if you don't realize it. And then - you are intercepted. A cloaked figure whirls to stand ahead of you on your path, just outside the castle walls, out of sight of the guards. Who would be out and about this time of night? "Stop." The hood is up, the slight figure obscured by night-time's mists as by the dark folds of cloth. Something bulky is hidden beneath the huddled material.
A dark eyebrow lifts in a questioning arch and lavender eyes flicker between the hood and the bulging of material. You are being sized and measured, among other things. And the serenity in his presence does not alter. "Yes?" comes the voice issuing behind the veil.
It is a prolonged singular syllable...
Dear Commander Izzard, in the off-chance that I am being held up at gun point by a hooded pirate, do me the favor of sending a charge toward the castle's main gate. Don't let's panic, however. Just... very quietly...send a detachment to meet me. No running. You know what they say about running with scissors. I'm sure that applies to swords as well.
"Can I be of some assistance to you?" Prince Gruffydd wonders, his gaze holding you fast, whoever you are.
There is a glance to either side, and then the figure approaches you. "Yes, your highness. You can. Take THIS." Whatever is beneath the cloak is abruptly being shoved forward at you. What will you do? It is sudden. It is not a gun, however, though you have little enough time to react...
No...
Not a gun, but a picnic hamper, with a checked cloth folded over its contents...
The force of the thrust causes the hood to topple backwards, revealing Maria's intent expression, chin uplifted in that pugnacious expression you already know...
A prince does have to be careful, wouldn't you agree? But as the object comes toward him, it no longer appears to be a firearm, sword or anything particularly lethal. Maybe a cannonball - but one has to shove a cannonball a good deal more swiftly to get any sort of reaction out of it.
Gruffydd's arms come out in reaction to get whatever it is -- cannonball, goat or gun -- and finds in his grasp a picnic basket. Chuckling quietly as your hood falls back, he lifts a hand to lower his veil. "You had me worried there for a moment. I thought it was a stick up." And he grins, amused at you and even more so at himself.
Commander Izzard... false alarm. I will explain later. I thought I was going to have to dodge a bullet. As it happens, its only a snack.
"Fancy a midnight snack, then? Care to join me on my ship? I'd like to give you a tour, actually. The least I could do for the feast you provided earlier."
His voice trails off as he begins to get curious about the basket and its contents. His gloved hand peels back the checked cloth to see what's beneath it.
"I decided that I could accept your gift if it were an exchange." Maria regards you steadily, a somewhat beaky look to her eyes as she stares up at you. It isn't quite belligerent, her hands now on her slender waist. "And even as much as you eat, your highness, you won't find that running out of food quickly. It's one of my few magicks."
There is ham in there - you can catch the sweetly spiced scent even without unwrapping. Freshly baked scones, and vanilla pudding; cinnamon and apple tart, and some sort of brisket in a Yorkshire pudding. Bottles clink heavily, for all that it looks only enough for a fairly normal picnic lunch and weighs only as much. There is panoply...
She looks a bit hesitant, now; you make your offer, and she considers it, then nods slowly, curiosity burning in her eyes. "All right. But I've got to be back before dawn. Mum won't like it if I'm out all night with a strange man. Even you..."
Lavender eyes sparkle - their color not visible so much as the light that comes through them - as he looks from the basket to you. He holds it easily, heavy as it is, in one hand as he gestures for you to walk beside him with his other. "Very kind and thoughtful of you, Maria. A basket of replenishing snacks. I'm not sure how I can thank you. Somehow a peacock quill and a tour of a galleon seem not quite to the measure. I will think of something," he tacks on after a half-second of thought.
For a moment -- just the barest sort of moment -- he wonders what it would be like if you could go along with him. Oh, of course it would be scandalous - and he should never wish that upon you or your mother and her kingdom, but still...
"I hope you will like the ship. It is called The Draigamor, which means Sea Dragon in my father's father's native tongue. It was my grandfather's ship first, High King Davydd. My father took over the ship when he was nine. I first sailed it as its captain when I was twelve."
Gruffydd looks to you as you and he steadily draw near the piers and ports. "I will ensure you are back in your room before dawn, of course. We'll let this be our secret. Your father would skin me alive, I'm sure, to know about our midnight snack."
"I've read about him." High King Davydd, your grandfather, and his wife, also your grandmother's other husband. It has made for fascinating if rather confusing reading. She regards you steadily for a moment, then turns to accompany you properly. The hood is drawn back up; mustn't give people room to talk, after all - and you and she begin to make your way to the Draigamor.
"It isn't father you've got to worry about," Maria corrects you absently. "It's mother all the way, really. Though she seems to like you. I don't think she'd get terribly angry with you. I'm not sure why, though." And you are given another assessing glance, which is ended with a blush, and she looks away again.
You give her too many ideas...
"I've never met your father. Either of your fathers. Your family is very unusual, Prince Gruffydd." There is no goading, no hostility, but rather, she states it as a fact. "I've never read about anything like it, not among humans, anyway. The high elves of the past did this regularly, and some of the kingdoms who claim descent from them get a bit sticky, but mostly - no. Then again, your mother's not like anyone else I've even read about!"
That's the understatement of the century.
Though he lives it and has since his birth, he's never really considered it as reading material. He looks at you, his mouth quirking just slightly at the thought. He doesn't blush just now. "I suppose from the outside, it is a bit confusing. I think even from the inside it is complicated and tangled."
His quirk of a smile becomes a real smile, his dimples revealed again, and his skin darkening - if such can be noticed in the dark. Ahead, the lights of the piers and docks -- and even from this distance you can see the light of the galleon ships, The Draigamor and its companions. "Your mother does seem to like me. Which is good. I like her. She is a friend of the family. I should not want to anger her, but hopefully we will be given the benefit of the doubt. It is, after all, the first time we've snuck out of the castle together. And truth be told, you're the only one who is sneaking. Technically."
Gruffydd reaches into the basket and pulls out a scone. He offers it to you. Care for a nibble? "Do the stories interest you? I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have, of course. We are friends, aren't we? I mean, I did give you a feather." As if it were a ring!
Gruffydd smiles and he gestures toward the ships ahead with a nod. "Look there, there they are: The Draigamor, The Discovery, The Hydra and The Blue Wyvern." They are great galleon ships, styled after the eighty gun Ships of the Line, with multiple masts and layers of sails. The Draigamor is by far the hardest to see due to its midnight blue paint. Only its outline is visible - it blends into the night sea and sky otherwise.
"Probably every family is," Maria answers you reasonably, her gaze not on you but on your ship as it looms gradually larger. She blushes as you mention sneaking, and first time and even technically. "I - suppose we're friends." She makes the concession grudgingly, and only because she's distracted by trying to get her glowing cheeks cooled. "I'll ask questions, but I don't want to be impertinent!"
She comes to a halt, as she looks at the four ships, staring with undisguised admiration. "They're lovely," she whispers, worshipful note temporarily entering her voice, and there is undisguised eagerness, now. "Oh! May I go on them? I wish I could go with you!"
She recalls herself to herself, and she hurries forward suddenly, to put distance between herself and her indiscretion - and you. "How many men have you on board? - How big is your family, anyway?"
"I think every family has its own story, its own complications, sure. At least," he laughs quietly, "I would hope so. I take comfort in the thought." He stops as you do, looking out over his ships, and then he pivots toward you. You and your flaming cheeks. "Ask whatever you like," Gruffydd softly assures.
"Thank you. And... yes... we will take a tour. Well, at least of The Draigamor. Tomorrow, I can show you the others if you like. As for how many sailors, each of the ships apart from The Draigamor have some four-hundred hands, all in all. That includes the doctors, carpenters, cooks and so on. If we were sailing to battle, that number would increase to six hundred.The Draigamor on the other hand has only one sailor." He smiles at you. It is a warm look, and an affectionate one. "Me."
As you all but lunge forward, putting cooling air between you and the prince, Gruffydd smiles and picks up his own pace, his long stride gobbling up land to catch up to you. "My family only seems that large. I have two grandfathers, one grandmother; I have two fathers, one mother. I have ...let's see... four brothers and three sisters. My sisters live outside of the realm, but they visit my mother from time to time. My mother is the angel Zafirah - and she has some seventy-one sisters, no brothers. I have more cousins than I can count. And I have two uncles and an aunt, and I'm older than all of them. Confused yet?"
"Slow down," Gruffydd chuckles. "It's not a race. Unless you want to race of course." Ahead the guards who were called still stand at attention, but the Crown Prince seems like he's in good health.
She listens to you, but she is staring at the ships, looking more interested in them than you might think. "Are you going to have to share your wife with some other man, then?" Maria asks you saucily. She blushes bright red even as the words leave her lips, and she hurries again, almost running, even as you are telling her to slow down. "You can't catch me, I'm the fastest of all my brothers and cousins!"
It is twisting in her - the desire to be caught versus the desire to flee. Some are born with the urge to run; in them, there is the prey and the predator, and in her is the notion that being caught mightn't hurt all that much, might it? at least, not after the first time...
Queen Anna knows her daughter better than Maria herself might guess.
"How are you older than your aunts and uncles? That doesn't make sense." She does slow down now, but only because of the guards ahead. Mustn't do to look as if she is a fugitive in need of spearing.
Now, however does one answer that truthfully? Gruffydd does not run even as you quicken you pace and all but flee. His quickstep is steady, chewing up territory in a fashion inherited from his grandfather. "I don't believe it is a requirement," he decides to say. "As for my aunts and uncles, these are my infant, well... toddler now aunts and uncles -- recent children of my grandmother and two grandfathers. In fact, my cousins Bran and Aeron are actually my uncles. And I'm a year older than they are. I've always just...called them cousins since we're so close in age." He pauses as he comes to stand beside you, and he chews upon his lip in consideration. "It's a confusing family. Even I lose track of it."
Ahead, the guards stand perfectly still, their faces veiled even as his was earlier. Their dress is both oriental and occidental, hints of multiple cultures - even some that have only existed in dreams. They are clothed in black, even as he is clothed in splendid colors.
Welcome back, the Crown Prince of the United Kingdoms! It is not the guards who hail him but the ship itself -- more specifically speaking, the dragons that make up the ship. The plank extends, the plank is itself formed of the bodies of silver dragons. Pivoting to you, Prince Gruffydd offers you his hand to escort you on board.
How fanciful a thing it would be, he thinks, to steal you away under the cover of night and adventure upon the high seas. His eyes twinkle with an unspoken thought. "I will show you the crown jewel of my father's navy."
She is innocent of your thoughts, startling at the hail from the ship, the silent shadows of the guards, and it makes her go subdued for the moment; she stops, hanging back, moving to your side to hover there with a glance up at your face. You offer a hand, and slowly, she accepts it, without premonition of mischief.
"My cousins are some older, some younger. My aunt has babies every so often, and they are always very pretty babies. But somehow, they always sour as they grow older." There is candor rather than spite in her voice, and Maria moves to the gangplank, her hair damp from having been washed of sea-salt and apple leaves. "I have helped deliver three of them. I would offer to show you my mother's crown jewel, but I cannot."
His hand is warm as it enfolds your own. There is a familiarity, even an intimacy in it. You share a touch; you share a secret. It is a secret that is held closely between the two of you. It is confirmed only in his look. As he leads you on board, the veiled guards fade into the dark of the ship and the hour and the plank withdraws into the body of the ship.
"I like the jewel that I have seen," he speaks quietly, his fingers lacing with your own. "Hmmm... sour grapes. I hear they are born of poisoned vines. She can only make what she herself is. I fear your aunt has never learned the secret of being beautiful. One must act beautifully. It is what one effects in the world that reveals the truth of one's beauty."
Around you, here and there, the glow of soft oil lamps. It is just enough illumination for you and he to see one another. He smells the apples and the salt that hover around you. And Gruffydd smiles. "You smell like the apple orchard," he murmurs. "I'm glad you pounced in my path and that you fell out of that tree."
What power that fruit holds over the men of his line. For some, the taste is intoxicating. For him, it is not the taste; it is the perfume.
The scent that most clings to him is something of the sea and something of cloves and cinnamon...
His hands holding yours, Gruffydd glances to the many masts, leading your attention along with his. "The sails," he notes with a nod toward the resting silks, "... are sea wyverns. They guide the ship. They make the wind with the flutter of their wings. The Draigamor can not only sail on the surface of the sea, but also through the water. When he was my age, my father was circumnavigating the oceans, dreaming new seas into being, even as he has taught me to do. He created these whirlpools... these aquatic highways... that allow me to quite nearly be in two places at one time, so quick is the travel."
No wonder the pirates quake in fear and he, even at his young age, commands the royal navy.
She is aware of the intimacy, hard as she tries to pretend otherwise. It is shared - a link that goes both ways. But she tries not to look at you, tries to ignore it even if not to deny it. It is something for which she is unprepared.
"I have a fondness for apples. It's having always had the orchards right there, you know. We are famed for our apples and our ciders, and our cheeses." Maria tries to keep it casual; tries not to look at you, even though she keeps returning her glances to you, to where you point, where you show. Her hand remains fast in yours. "Everything I first learned to cook was apples."
This is not right. I should not feel so weak, so vulnerable, just for being in this man's presence. The less so for who he is! Maria glowers at her feet for a moment, then looks to you again. "...Show me something that only you can do, then," she suggests, a sharp note entering her voice. "Something no one else has showed you how to do." There is a challenge for you; in her voice, in her eyes, the lift of her chin and her hand on her waist, all denoting expectation, as if to say Well?
What are you waiting for...
Gruffydd pauses at your challenge, but he does not shrink from it or ask to get out of it. He lifts your other hand held in his grasp to his lips, kissing your fingertips before setting it free. His hands come together in a clap, rubbing against one another in thought. "Something only I can do, hmm? Aha, here we go."
You might wonder just what this trick is going to be as he is shrugging off the velvet captain's coat. It falls from his shoulders but floats on the air behind him, waiting for him to call it to him again. Off goes the shirt, and the physique that the dive into the pool suggested is now shown to you. Around his caramel colored neck, is a chain of finest platinum, and from it a small globe. It is actually not a globe but the form of a spiral galaxy put to platinum and intricately carved.
Two great wings sprout up from his shoulder blades, trailing the deck of his ship. They are strong, meant to lift him for flight - that's not the trick, mind you -- and the feathers are colored and have the appearance of peacock's feathers. "See that horizon," he points to the east. "Keep your eyes peeled there," Gruffydd whispers to you.
He vaults into the sky, hovering several hundred feet above the highest point of the highest mast, his great wings scooping the air around him. Winding up as if to deliver a pitch, he sends a comet of stars and dust and illumination like a fireworks explosion from his hand to the far horizon. The sky is alight with his falling star and it arcs toward the horizon.
At the horizon, there is an explosion of light and color, of illumination, and creation. Stars are born there, and a brand new ocean and island.
Landing quietly on the deck of The Draigamor, Gruffydd looks to you. A spyglass appears in his hands, as glittering as the comet that just flew from his hands. He hands it to you. "Now... look at your gift, Maria." As you point the spyglass to the horizon where the corona of creation still lingers, you can see a new island of white sand beaches and an indigo bay. Emeralds dot the shore, boulders of great green gems, and past the sandy shore a grove of apple trees. "The Maria Islands," he smiles. "I think it has a nice ring to it."
Are you undressing? What is this? Her eyes widen in shock and a hint of panic; she doesn't know how to react to THIS! Until you stop again; she relaxes, and then her eyes widen again. Wings...
She makes the faintest motion, and you are gone. She watches, stares really, the hand that had begun to lift instead self-consciously moving to her hair, to push the unruly waves back from her face. She begins to chew on her lower lip, watching; watching, eyes wide with undisguised awe and interest, her cheeks growing flushed with wind and with emotion.
You are something different from other men. The realization curls in the pit of her stomach like a beckoning signal, much as she tries to ignore. You land again, and she is silent and subdued, taking the spyglass but looking more at you, until she has to pull her gaze away. The spyglass is pointed; it almost drops from nerveless fingers, and her blush threatens to run out of control.
Maria tries to speak, working her mouth but having nothing come out at first. "I - I do not know what to say," she whispers, the spyglass lowered, almost falling. She turns, looking up at you with eyes a bit too bright. "...You can do this whenever you want?"
He smiles, his wings flapping until they fold at his back. They dissolve into his musculature. "Only when dared," he replies. There is a wink of lavender, and the comet tossed echoes in his eyes. "Or when I am feeling inspired. Do you want something to eat? I'm starving again. Throwing stars always has that effect on me."
Gruffydd offers you his arm again, his smile fond and warm. "You can keep the spyglass," he murmurs. "That way, you can always see your island. It can be your...happy place. When your cousins are bothering you, or your brothers."
He turns you toward the stern deck. There is a cabin there. Windows become visible as lamps are lit within. "We will have to ask your mother's permission to visit it. Well, we'll have to let her know we're going at any rate. I don't want her mermen to come fetch me. That's sure to be unpleasant. I would like you to come visit me in the Capitol once my tour completes. I have already cleared it with your mother. That is, if you would like to visit."
"Something to eat," Maria repeats, then shakes her head, then nods. "I - yes, all right." She blushes a bit, looking away from you even as she takes your arm; she is looking in the direction of the islands. The islands you have made for her. HER islands.
What kind of a man are you...
She is still a bit overawed, peeking at you briefly, and then staring directly ahead. "I - I would like to come visit. You. I would like to see you." Unbidden color, the image of you shirtless and winged comes to her mind again, and her color brightens; she almost stumbles into you. "I - perhaps food would be best. I need something to put in my mouth, other than my foot. Your highness."
He balances you without commentary. It is not that he does not see or feel your reddening cheeks; he merely does not tease you for it. He is the last to cast stones for blushing. "Is there anything in particular that you would like, Maria? Or would you like me to just surprise you?"
He smiles as he pauses at the door, and while his hand reaches for the door handle you feel a touch to your back. It is warm like a hand, but it is definitely not a hand. Gently, a wing touches to your back to politely escort you within.
The Captain's Cabin -- such a quaint term for such a large and fantastical place. The floor is tiled, or seems tiled, with the universe -- with the self-same comets, the same glittering, shifting clouds of stardust, the arms of the Milky Way one may see now upon the larger space. On closer inspection, it is the view of something specific -- not merely pretty stars and universes running on some random pattern like a computer's screensaver. It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them. Gleaming brightly, your kingdom -- pulsing with a heartbeat's rhythm. And on the far outer fringe, at what must be the horizon, there is a new cluster of smaller lights -- the Maria Islands. Across the far distance, no more like in the exact center of the chamber, is a point of bright light -- a single point, and it is softly throbbing.
If one can peel one's attention from the floor, the rest of the vast chamber is no less fantastic. It is furnished like a sultan's palace, with great silk and velvet cushions of red and violet, sapphire blue and gold. There are small but ornately carved tea tables set here and there, with decanters full of golden and red liquid. At the far end of the chamber there are two arched doorways, both closed. And from where you stand, there is a spiraling golden staircase that leads to the starry floor.
"Welcome to my home away from home. Well, actually, it's just my home." Gruffydd smiles to you. "So... I am thinking dates and walnuts dusted with cinnamon, warm flatbread, honey, some grape leave stuffed with lamb..." And as he speaks it, they appear and savory smells fill the large chamber.
She is impressed - still trying not to be, but impressed. Entirely too impressed, and it is bothering her. "Your home away from home is bigger than my and my brothers' suites put together," she tells him, with probably not all that much exaggeration. Maria moves slowly across the floor, blushing vividly as she looks to it rather than to you. Eventually, she may look you in the eye again. Eventually.
"You don't need me to cook for you at all, do you? I should have done something better than a picnic basket," Maria mutters, her hand coming up to brush her hair back from her cheek. "You are too good at surprises. I cannot keep up. It is not fair."
He had forgotten about the basket, left on deck when he took to the air. You can tell this not because mentions it but because he goes red, a very deep red that erupts on his cheeks and then flushes his neck and chest -- and, if you were to look, the underside of his wings. "Maria, my apologies. I left it on the deck. No no no, your picnic is more than enough." And with that, he makes the rest disappear with the wave of a wing. Well, all except the dates and walnuts.
"Ah... well... I do like to eat," he mentions. "Here... wait here," Gruffydd murmurs. And while you stand in the middle of the map of the many worlds, he bounds up the staircase, three at a clip and around and around and onto the deck to fetch the basket. "Help yourself to something to drink!" his voice resounds. And there is plenty to choose from. If you inspect the bottles you will find a honey liqueur, a spiced wine, and something lighter, a juice perhaps. Pear?
The door softly closes as he arrives with the basket in hand. His captain's coat and tunic are still outside, but those aren't going anywhere. "Now... where were we before I put my foot in my mouth? Oh, yes... the room. My grandfather designed it. The lights are all the kingdoms and capitols in the realm. Your islands are over there," a peacock wing gestures as he begins to lay out what you've brought with you, even thrust at him earlier. "And the big pulsing light? That is the capitol of the High King's island. There is a bedroom," Gruffydd blushes again, but smirks at it all the while, dimples showing themselves again. "...and what was once a nursery, my father's nursery actually, is not a large bath."
Maria stands there, watching you go - when your back is to her, it's easy, and you have WINGS and it's strange and exciting and new. She lifts her fingers to her lips as she watches you, dropping her hand hurriedly when she hears you returning; she turns to the bottles, quickly selecting the most innocuous of them; or what she thinks is most innocuous, in any case.
She pours glasses, for herself and for you. "It is lovely," Maria mutters. Now she is back to not looking at you, contrary as a cat. "You didn't have to, though. It's just... if you can summon food whenever you like, you do not need my offering, that's all. I - would rather give you something that you would need."
"Need and want are two different things." He says it and he hears himself say it, and then he realizes the other meaning. While he doesn't blush, his eyes twinkle in self-directed laughter. "Now you know why I hide behind a veil. It's to keep from talking and making a spectacle of myself." The wink chases the lasts vestiges of blushing from his skin.
He takes one of the bits of bread from the basket, and one of the cheeses and makes a plate for you and then himself. You have done the pouring - it is either the pear cider or the honey liqueur from the looks of it. Gruffydd smiles and gestures for you to take a seat on one of the enormous cushions.
His wings fold back behind him again, tucking themselves magically against his back until they dissolve into his musculature again. Taking a plate and a glass full of golden liquid, he moves to join you on a neighboring cushion. "I'm glad you like it. The other ships have their amenities, but The Draigamor is special. And not because it's my home, though that certainly makes it unique. Do you like sailing? Do you enjoy it?"
He enjoys a bit of the bread and cheese and he sips at the.... honey liqueur. It is a nice blend of sweet and savory. "I would like to have anything you would think to give me. I don't know what I need, exactly. Well, I could use a new coat. I'm outgrowing my current coat..."
"As if you were not big enough." She says it without dual meaning to her words, moving to one of the cushions. She stares at you as you banish your wings, unabashed for a moment; a moment only, then leading to her staring instead at her glass. "It is special," Maria agrees after a moment, turning slightly towards you. "Sailing? Yes. My mother wanted to sail always, and when she could finally learn, it was something she shared with all of us. Though not all of us took to it equally well."
She takes one of the apple tarts, dribbling a little of the honey liqueur over it, then lifts it for a healthy bite. It keeps her quiet for a minute while she thinks of what to answer you. "I suppose I could get you a coat, but you would need to give me your measurements," Maria answers cautiously. "I am not too terrible at measuring by eye, but not so good as that, your highness. ...Does it hurt? When your wings come out, I mean."
"No, it feels good actually. It's like stretching after napping," he says. The conversation comes so easily. He marvels at it even as he enjoys it. "It must be all the food," Gruffydd smiles. "I will have to watch that, yes? When I stop growing up and start growing out. I think you should surprise me. Whatever you do, you should do whatever strikes your fancy. Cinnamon buns are always nice." He laughs quietly at that. It is a easy sound, his laughter, and it makes him beautiful.
As you and he eat and drink and talk, he unfurls his peacock-feathered wings again, letting his great wingspan create a canopy of feathers above your head. "Convenient on a hot day," he notes. "I can both provide shade and create a breeze." With a grin, he looks to you. "Did you take to it well, sailing that is? I loved it immediately. Flying took a bit of getting used to, especially the landings."
"You will have to think of some sort of suitable exercise," Maria retorts. She shrugs off her cloak, now, leaving her in a plain but very nice dress; simple lines, classic style, belted with a sash. She will not admit to it, but she has dressed up for you. For you, she has put on a dress.
"I do like cinnamon. And apples. Baked apples, with maple syrup and cinnamon powder, in the fall." Maria looks wistful at the thought, then lifts her head to watch your wings; a hand comes up, instinctive, then lowers to her lap. "I always loved it. Mother says that when I was a baby, even when she was pregnant with me, the surest way to get me to settle down was to go sailing with me. I have my own skiff - it is not big enough to go far, though." She looks disappointed.
You well can imagine, she might take off if she had anything bigger...
"Mother laughed the day I stole the Royal Navy," Maria continues, giving you a flashing-eyed glance. "She says she did the same thing at my age. That persuaded me not to do it again. I hate being unoriginal."
"If it wouldn't cause a diplomatic incident, I would take you for a cruise right now. Just in the bay. But if I pull up anchor, and they don't find you in your room." He gives you a look and a smile. "We'll never hear the end of that. But, when you come to visit me," and it is a when, "... I will take you on a tour. I will even teach you how to sail a big ship like this. If you'd like to learn."
Apples and cinnamon - it brings a smile to his lips again. "Have you ever had a date. The fruit, I mean," he murmurs, only a faint redness glancing against his face. When he holds out his hand, there are three in the center of his palm. Stuffed with walnuts, they are further sweetened by a dusting of cinnamon and brown sugar. "They are my favorite. Apples tend to be... hmm... how to delicately put it. Apples have a particular effect on the men of my family tree. But... I love the smell of them. The smell of your hair right now."
There is no pulling away of the wing as you reach up. "You can touch them if you want," he says softly. Their colors are so vivid - rich electric green, purple and blue. Lavender eyes fix on your face and now he says nothing. In the quiet, there is electricity. When black lashes lower as his gaze sweeps down to look at your mouth, the air becomes suddenly crowded with the anticipation of a kiss.
"I would like to learn. Anything, really. I am not so fond of classrooms, though I do like to read. I would very much like to learn anything you have to teach. I think you would be a very good teacher." The words tumble out, and then she is blushing; she finishes the tart with grey eyes lowered. The storm is in the room, though, between you and her; electricity crackling from her hair to your feathers.
You mention apples; you mention the smell of her hair. Intimacy is crowding into the room with you, and she looks to your wings, then to your face. Your eyes and hers meet, and clash; her gaze sticks, rather than falling away. Maria leans towards you, her hand brushing against your wing, and she finds words, quiet, not entirely distinct.
"It must have been very lonely, in some ways. You make your own space."
"I haven't considered it lonely. I am blessed. I have a family that loves me. The wings... I didn't discover how to free them until I was older. I don't take them out and show just anyone, mind you." There is the spark in the deep part of his brain - a signal that things are getting close. But he chooses to ignore it just now.
The feel of your fingers in his feathers is just so much more appealing and enjoyable.
With your fingers moving against the downy underside of those peacock feathers, Gruffydd leans in. The hand that held the dates now closes over the fruit as his lips brush then pluck against your own. And his wing enfolds you, drawing you near him as the plucking of his lips becomes a slide, becomes a parting.
The smell of apples and cinnamon is in his nostrils. The smell of your apples hits the back of his throat, and he sighs at your mouth, a warm breath passing between you. Have you ever kissed like this? Lingering and lasting?
He parts it with another breath, his mouth drawing away with a tug of your lips' fullness. His eyes closed, he speaks in a whisper: "I would love to teach you everything I know."
She is not in a hurry; it is strange to her, that she is not in a hurry. She quivers slightly in your hold, the picture of vulnerability. Aware of her own vulnerability, accepting it but with nervousness, lips a trifle parted. Dark lashes slide down to veil her eyes as your lips brush her own; she makes no motion to pull away. Her fingers slide against and through your feathers, sliding down as if it is safer, somehow, than touching your chest...
Bared male flesh, nearby and tempting, as tempting as any apples and serpents...
Her lips are tingling with the kiss, your eyes closed, her eyes closed. She kisses you in the velvet darkness of downed eyelids, and her lips move against your own, almost against your own, as answer to your whisper.
"Take me with you," Maria whispers, though she does not look at you. "Is there, really, any good reason why you can't?"
There are a hundred; she was sure of that, hours ago. Now, she cannot remember any of them.
His fingers are dusted in sugar. Like some night-winged fantasy, he offers the walnut stuffed date to your lips. His eyes follow the trail of sugar upon your lips -- the crystals leaving a comet's tail upon the rise and fall of flesh. Gently, the fruit is pressed to the heart of your lower lip and he feeds you his offering. It is the taste of heaven; and in its gentleness and its sweetness it is pure temptation. The date fruit is sweet, made sweeter with the dusting of sugar and by his own touch.
"I will make you a promise," Gruffydd whispers, his fingers presented to your lips next, coated with sugar from the date and from your lips. "When this tour is done, I will come to take you with me. There are many reasons why tonight cannot be the night. I should never want to demean your reputation or that of your kingdom. No matter how much I want to feel you on this cushion beneath me and feed you sweet fruit from my own fingers."
Another fruit materializes in his fingers. Dusted with a cinnamon oil and sugar, it leaves humming warmth upon your lips, like the echo of his kiss. "But... there are many things that we may ...enjoy that will not besmirch your reputation." No one knows you are here, after all. And so long as you are returned intact...
The crown prince smiles tenderly but in that veiled way of his that hints at secrets to be imparted. "I want to make a pledge to you, but not in words. Words are easy." Again he presses the date fruit to your mouth, feeding you the nut stuffed fruit -- this one stuffed with honey and almonds that soothe the burn of cinnamon. "I want you to think of me when I am gone, after all," those lavender eyes sparkle as his secretive smile becomes a grin. "And to long for every letter until I return to take you to your future kingdom as my betrothed bride."
His fingers, coated in cinnamon oil, smooth against your lips. And then he kisses you.
From your fingers the date travels to her lips, her eyes hovering half-closed. She accepts it as if taking communion; as, in a sense she is. Are you not a child of an angel? And is this between you not a communion of many layers? The date is taken, eaten slowly, as if she is luxuriating in the contact.
The tip of her tongue comes forward, tasting the sweet upon her lips - upon your fingers, as you speak. She listens to you, colour rising high as she looks at you with the innocence of those unmarked fields in her eyes; the grey clouds, drifting, then drawing wilder in intensity. And she kisses you.
It is savoured, enjoyed with the words, and with the trembling of her innocence, but she pulls back for just a moment, whispering words to you in turn. "I have an idea," Maria mutters, fingers aquiver and unsteady as she touches your wing. "Will you hear me out, your highness? Or are you to be the future high king who does not listen to his subjects?" It takes all her energy, all her willpower to speak. Her eyes beg you to kiss her again, only the lightning in them keeping her speech from dying.
The peacock feathers spread to your touch, each pinion stretching and extending to feel a glance from your fingers. I have an idea. Your words filter slowly through the crowded air and into his ears, finally striking is brain. He has several ideas himself, as you can imagine. He wonders what you might imagine that he is imagining, and that puzzle of a thought -- completely delightful -- tickles the light at the back of his eyes, stirring the periwinkle and purple.
His gaze lifts to your gaze, though he lets it wander. Your dress is pretty, and the ribbon around your waist. "Please... I am a fan of ideas." Your eyes beg, and who are his lips to deny you? Gruffydd kisses the sugar from your lips, and then he tilts his head, his dark waves and curls brushing against your skin as he bends to kiss the side of your neck. "Tell me... this idea of yours...is it crafty?" There is a smile to his deep voice as it brushes against your ear. "I do like crafty ideas."
With a wide wing yet wrapped around you, Gruffydd leans back a little, his eyes drinking you in. So close to him as you are, you can feel the warmth emanating from his skin, you can smell the rise of some smoky scent, like cloves and nutmeg - a scent worn so subtly it is only excitement that makes it blossom. How strong he is, how strong he looks. The velvet thighs shift upon the silken cushions, suddenly seeming so formidable.
"What do you have in mind, my princess?"
Kisses distract her, divert her attention and her thoughts. You are so close, your wings holding her in cocoon; she cannot help but feel that she is becoming beautiful for being held by you. Something treasured; a chrysalis of emotion. No matter what happens, this moment is changing her, and things shall not be the same.
You lean back from her apple scent, you lay claim to her with caress and with words. Such a simple word. My. Maria clears her throat softly, looking at you with her vulnerability worn so openly, even as she tries to marshal thoughts and, in a way, slight defense. "Stay another night in my mother's kingdom," she suggests, voice low and wobbling away from firmness. "And - contact your father, or one of them, anyway. See if - if he is open to the idea of ... of a chaperone. If there is a chaperone of which you or he knows, who my mother would accept... then I could go with you. And - and it would give us time."
To be together, but not too close. To see if this will last, or if it is just a summer moment.
"I do not want to lose my heart to you, and have it break..."
The scent is in his nostrils. He will be smelling it all night, and he won't be able to sleep. The entire tour, he should not wonder. If you are with him or not with him, the effect will be the same. His fingers slide against your own as a hand comes to cover yours. He kisses each little finger. "And what do you think your mother will say? Would she, even with a chaperone, be content to let her only daughter go off to sea?"
His other wing comes to lie against his own form, covering his legs, and to all but surround you entirely. "I will contact my fathers tonight," he assures, a feather of his other wing lifting and brushing back your hair and tickling your cheek with all the deftness of a finger. "And we will speak with your mother in the morning. An educational trip, yes? And to allow you and I more time. So... who will you choose as your chaperone?" Gruffydd wonders slyly. "Someone who might take a nap or two so that I might feed you dates and grapes and kiss the sugar from your mouth? I will have to practice my sneaking," he says matter-of-factly, as if making a mental note for himself.
"We will meet for breakfast," he says it softly. "And we will ask her for her will." Leaning in, he turns his head just slightly, his lips placed near your ear. "And it will be so hard for me not to want to feed you from my own fingers. I will look at you across the table when you nibble at your toast and jam, and I will wish then that I were nothing more than a pat of butter melting there."
Gruffydd closes his eyes as he breathes you in, and as his warm breath moves against your ear he leaves a kiss behind. "Now I am hungry. Again." He chuckles there and with a last kiss lies back upon the cushion, one wing still around you, and his other folded around himself. "I want apple pie with warm butter crust infused with cinnamon." Rolling his head upon the silk of the grand cushion, he looks to you from where he lies.
"A smart chaperone will want you on another ship," he says with a dimpled grin. "At least five ship lengths away from me." His wing rubs like a hand against your back. "You look really lovely sitting here, in your lovely little dress. I will keep my promise to you. I will still write you every day. I will slip little notes here and there for you to find... and to hide from the prying eyes of your chaperone."
She has no urge to move away from you. "I will ask her," Maria whispers. She shifts suddenly on the cushion, tumbling towards you to land against the broadness of your chest with a little gasping sound. She is trembling, with her own audacity, with your solidity in front of her, and she closes her eyes. "...I do not know who I will choose. It will be my mother's choice. If she says yes, she will insist on that much, I am sure."
Poor thing. You have her entirely overwhelmed, even as she straightens up again - as if your touch could burn her, if she were to lie against you too long. She will resent it in the morning, in embarrassment at her own lack of self-control. Her fingers, though, they stroke your feathers, both hands doing so gently. "We still must see if they will say yes. I - perhaps I should not have suggested it. But - I want to go with you. I did, even before..."
Even before you kissed me...
A wing enfolds you. First one, then two, as you come to rest against his chest. He is solid form, muscular and potent, but in the shelter of his wings, cocooned there in his arms, he is a sanctuary. "We will find our way," the prince murmurs against the crown of your head, "...to have our... little moments. We will steal them, like proper pickpockets, and hold them dear and close to our hearts."
He moves his feathers against your fingers, like the interlacing of hands as you sit up. How pretty you look sitting perched beside me. The only thing more intimate than stroking his wings, holding his hand, kissing him, is the sound of his voice whispering in the pit of your ear.
He smiles at you, the winged prince, as he yet reclines. Rolling slowly up, he sits again, his hand bracing on the bed next to you. A cascade of feathers moves along your form, folding and enfolding your curves. "I have been wanting you to go since you first fell from the tree. I liked you instantly. And when you emerged from the water like a goddess, in your sweet defiance, I wanted you to go with me. I want to look in the direction that you walk, and I want to go with you everywhere."
Feathers caress you, holding and stroking wherever they rest. Each pinion is a hand, is a feather, is a finger. You are grasped in the hundreds. Gruffydd bends to whisper in your ear. "When you touch me, you make me dream."
He knows he should take you home. It is late, and you cannot stay out all night. But he does not want to let you go, even as he does not trust himself should you stay. "In care of your purity," his mouth brushes your mouth, "... your honor... your reputation... I should let you go to bed." Should, he says. Lavender eyes look to you in the closeness within which he holds you. Gruffydd smiles slyly. "But I do not want to let you go, my princess. I could hold you and breathe your scent forever and I would still want you."
He pauses a moment, biting on his lower lip in thought. "I could sneak you into your castle at dawn, and you could stay with me, play with me a while. There is no harm in that, so long as we do not sleep."
And, his gaze says, there's no chance of that.
Somehow, she summons up the strength to ease away from you, even if against your feathers. It is an agony; it leaves her trembling, her hands pressed over your heart. "I want to, and I want to entirely too much; and that tells me more than anything else that I should not." Grey eyes lift to lavender, her lips puckering with the urge to kiss you (and kiss you... and kiss you), and she sways, swooning towards you as flowers towards the angle of the sun.
Maria pulls herself upright again; and she lifts her hands, peels them slowly from your chest. You will not be alone in being sleepless. "I should go back," she whispers. "If only so I may plot against the efforts of my family to keep me here."
"I will follow you," he says quietly, his wing finally retreating from you -- though one remains folded against himself. Perhaps to protect you - it is most certainly that. Even if from himself. "To make sure you return safely." Gruffydd reaches for your hand, and he places a kiss upon your palm. "I would send guards, but that would only attract attention."
And thus negate the sneaking.
With an exhale, he starts to rise. As soon as he does, he transforms to a bird of paradise. I will be behind you and beside you the whole time.
The wings and tail feathers are a spectacle as he takes to the air and then perches at the head of the spiral staircase that leads to the door and the deck. I will say a prayer tonight, for our good fortunes.
And my restraint...
Posted by rowan at June 30, 2008 08:42 PM
