She isn't in Avalon anymore. Avalon's nice - in small doses. But she can't quite get used to the idea of being not-quite-queen in another kingdom; can't quite get used to the people bowing and the court gossip and politics. In her own kingdom she feels sometimes the outsider - but it's less outside, there. After all, she made every bush and tree and flower, didn't she?
     Back in her own kingdom, curled up in a not-quite-forgotten corner with a stack of books, an intent frown of concentration upon her face as she leans back in her chair. One elbows rests on the arm of the chair, cheek propped against curling fingers as the other hand holds the oversized book up at an angle on her knee. She's in an outfit like the one she visited you in - long silk skirts and sleeves paired with a bodice to lift her breasts while allowing her stomach to relax despite the upraised knee, the other foot allowed to dangle; both her feet are bare right now. And she's wearing red and black, black leather bodice with crimson silk skirt and sleeves allowed to flutter, a certain blue disc around her throat and both ruby and emerald on her fingers...
     Her hair is elegantly curled, but the elegance is slightly askew. Fiona's curls have been knocked slightly astray by her shifting and her squirming to get comfortable, though now she's gotten comfortable, she might never move away from her windowseat. The velvety cushions are soft, at least, as a pregnant queen might need. Already, the changes are at work in her body.
     She turns a page. On the page, men fight with swords, the script dancing and shifting as if to make itself illegible to anyone - even the one reading the book. "And following through with his thrust, he slew his opponent, allowing peace to reign once more. Somehow, I doubt it was quite that simple."

     There is a sudden flurry of activity in the halls beyond your own, a burst of voices, of energy, like the arrival of the Pope. Or a king? Rhodri has been in Avalon, visiting you, but also working on the building of his own kingdom. Today, meeting with the court of Camelot.
     This is not Rhodri entering. He too often steals his way in your chambers, scooping you up to ravish you. This, this is more... dramatic. More chaotic.
     "No, I don't want a drink. Bah, keep your hands off my coat, you're getting your prints all over it," comes the authoritative rumble. Not a moment passes, half moments only, ticking past in seconds, when your doors are opened and Davydd is striding in, clothed in glorious black leather, tres moderne. Behind him, a stream of fluttering servants, hoping to make him comfortable. Or at least slow him down to give you enough time to make yourself presentable.
     No such luck...
     "Hey there, beautiful," Davydd quips, his smile going wide. "I thought... you know... I'd pop by. See if you were free. See if you wanted a lap full of Welshman." Reading? Bah! Who cares about books when your man's at hand? Davydd crosses the distance between you quickly.

     Chaos...
     What can that mean?
     Fiona barely has time to consider ramifications - voices uplifted. No, not Rhodri - no, it can only be - "Davydd!"
     She is glowing at you already, setting her book aside, not even marking her place as she begins trying to struggle out of the chair. It isn't easy; it takes both hands. But she is happy to see you. And she isn't trying to disguise it. Yet.
     She gets to her feet, and you can see some of the changes that have been wrought - by the difference in time from one realm to another, by the differences you've put in her (you and your thieving son). For one, her breasts are larger than they were. That likely grabs your attention (and imagination) quickly enough; the roundness of them, they are voluptuous, forced into being orbs by the bodice (whereas they'd probably prefer to be a little more teardrop-like)- and matched by a gathering roundness below.
     No, she isn't fat yet. But her hips - never boyish - have taken on an added 'charm', if you will; they're a little wider, perhaps, a little fleshier, maybe, with just the slightest beginnings of a swell in front.
     Well... it's twins, after all.
     But now Fiona has recalled herself to herself, and she's scowling at you - half-playfully, though. "Bloody brute of a man," she declares, even as she crosses to help close the distance, hands coming up to grab your face (or box your ears). "Sending everyone into a panic. - Yes, you all can go back to your other duties. The Holly King is permitted into my presence, I will receive him." Go away, won't they?

     He's full of grins and full of shite. You can tell it by the look -- he's likely knocked a few back. Oes, Oes, there's the eau de Guinness about him when you come near, and the smell of tobacco, too. He's been a-pubbing, your husband.
     That explains the wardrobe...
     There's that black leather coat you like so well, which he wears despite the fact it's summer, that's square cut and ends between his hips and his thighs. Beneath that there's a grey pullover and his wool-blend trousers and a pair of substantial shoes, round-toe and heavy treaded. He clean-shaven and his hair is short -- so short, there's barely a hint of wave. Fiery copper, with a deep resonance.
     But he could give a shite about all that. He's too busy looking at you. "Hey hey hey," he rolls out, grinning down at you as you have a hold of his face. Davydd's hands come to your hips, enjoying them for a moment as he leans in for a kiss. "I thought I'd spend some time with y'. Gwilym's going to be... indisposed for a bit. I'll have to pop off around two a-m my time, but ... hell, that could be a year by this clock," he chuckles. "So so so," everything in three's tonight? "...let me get a good look at you now," comes the rumble of his voice, half-held in his throat as he speaks.
     His eyes go from your slightly fuller cheeks to your... much fuller breasts. They take their time strolling from your breasts to your belly and hips, his hands still there. Gently, he pulls you to him, his grin sidling. "I like it... I like it very much," he makes the quietest of growls at your mouth and gifts you with a proper greeting -- a full, warm kiss. "Twenty more pounds and you'll be perfect."
     Dark green eyes sparkle in a wink and he leans back to get another look. Or two. Or three.

     Her hands rub against your cheeks, then up to ruffle through your hair as lovingly as roughly. "Bastard," Fiona coos, leaning in towards you and then sidling back so you can look her up and down. "Are you saying I'm not perfect now? That you don't - and haven't - found me utterly desirable, delightful and delectable? I'm crushed."
     You pull her close again, and she allows it - not that she could fight it very easily, but she allows it. "I love you too," Fiona murmurs, her mouth to your mouth, corners curving up in a slow, sidling grin that moves into her eyes. Blue they are today - very blue, threaded with shimmering hints of green and silver at angles. "Twenty more pounds and I'll be fat. But I've a suspicion I'll get there anyway, thanks to these two in my belly."
     Her arms twine around your neck as she presses up against you, then slide apart so her hands can go to your shoulders as you lean. "Do you know how to make mp3 players work here? Because I've been fighting with mine for days and I can't get it to play a damn thing. I don't know if it's proprietary software issues or just that I suck, but I'd appreciate the hand - and what do you have in mind tonight, by the way?"
     Now the eyes are guileless, and Fiona blinks up at you. Demure.

     "I like my women with a little something extra. I'm a hip man. And breast and thigh," he tacks on with a chuckle. "So...don't go cursing the ...little something extra, now." Davydd grins, his hands giving your...little bit extra a little bit of a squeeze...as he leans in for another kiss. "You look very lovely." My plump little pudding...
     "As for plans," Davydd quips out, straightening, chin dipping to look down at you, "... I don't really have any. I just thought I'd come by, see how things were going. Have you spoil me... I mean... spoil you," he cocks a grin. "I can't have dinner, but maybe I can look at the dessert tray?"
     Then you speak Greek and he cocks his head back, nose wrinkling and looking confused. MP3 player? "Uh..." His eyebrows knit together. "What's it?"

     "I - it plays music. Like ... ringtones on your cellphone, only all it does is play songs you put on it." Fiona scowls at you playfully, then frogs you one on your arm - not terribly hard, though not pulling it much either. "You should know about these things if you're going to be a modern man. You can look at the dessert tray all you like." She kisses you, then detaches, turning to saunter away with an added roll of her hips for your benefit.
     "I was planning on doing a few things today," Fiona informs you casually, "so maybe you can tag along? I was going to go inspect the troops in review. I suppose I should change - or at least put on shoes - but I admit that I don't much feel like it. I've also got to get some information to Huw, if he's there, or via whoever the hell is his adjutant. Assuming he has one." She frowns slightly. "I'd been having him and Hwyll take care of things in my absence, but now that I'm stuck here for a little while..."
     She pats her belly, plump though not swollen yet. "In another couple of months, you'll have to roll me around, Davydd," Fiona half-grumbles. She can't entirely disguise the peculiarly pleased note to her voice, though. "Come on, then. If you're coming, of course. We can have a bath after, if you're so minded. I hope you're still happy to see me pregnant with your son?"

     "Review the troops, eh?" The look you're given is ultimately kingly, but also a little fatherly. "I better go have a look at them myself. Not that I don't trust your abilities," he's quick to note, "...but if these are the lads in charge of protecting my woman and my entire lineage and future, then I better take a look at them myself."
     So, he's going alright. You might regret it later.
     "As for being a modern man," Davydd snorts, "... I pick up after myself, I use a toothbrush, a cell phone, I drive between the lines, what else is there?" his hands come out, gesturing as he speaks, grinning as he gestures.
     Pivoting, Davydd makes for the door. He'll swing it open wide when you're ready. "I promise I'll be gentle," he chuckles, opening the door and holding it. With the rollin' or the troop reviewin'? He closes his eyes briefly. "A bath. A drink. A full-bodied woman. Bubbles. Sounds like a fine evenin'..."

     "You trust me - just not too far when it comes to this. Even though it's Huw that's assembled most of these troops," most, not all, for some reason, "and has been responsible for their training and outfitting and the rest. I trust Huw, of course, but," Fiona smiles at you sweetly, "I know you don't like him. Or rather, that you didn't like him when I was dating him..."
     She would ordinarily scurry away, but not right now - she's not feeling much like scurrying these days. Instead, she saunters towards you, towards the doors you're opening, with a knowing gleam in her eyes and a toss of the long curls (she's taken to wearing her hair down in ringlets for a change) and an added emphasis on the sway of her hips.
     "I've got all sorts of plans, ap Owain," Fiona tells you airily. "I'll let you in on a few of them, but for this evening? Mostly I want to enjoy your company. And pretend my back isn't hurting. We need to go down to the plains on the east side of the palace."

     There's a visible grumble when you mention dating the satyr. How you remained a virgin, he'll never know. "We just have a different way of viewing the world," Davydd notes, "...and while I may seem like I can barely zip up my pants on a good day, I know sommat about putting an army together. Not that I'm saying 'e doesn't, mind you. Just... well... I just want to see it for my own eyes. It's not about not trusting you..."
     Fiery eyebrows lift in a slow arch as Davydd tilts his head and watches you move. All of you. "I'm getting all sorts of plans too," comes the rumble low and long. "Let's make this quick, yeah?"

     Fiona just smiles. She likes you a little bit jealous (and yes, a little bit possessive), and it brings a glint briefly into her eyes. "Oh, Davydd," she murmurs sweetly, "the real reason you can barely zip up your trousers is because of the size of you. I know you have experience with armies - on both sides of that coin, Davy."
     She smirks, then continues in her easy rolling gait, long hair swaying against the small of her back. "...Huw's had a bit of experience too," Fiona continues casually, "and I'm sure he won't mind my asking you for advice. In fact, he likely wonders why you haven't been giving it already. What with my having been so long a virgin, and never before a queen, and my lack of experience in matters of war... though I do intend to learn all that I possibly can about that. I've got a lot of catching up to do, haven't I?"
     At the mutter about making it quick, she just laughs. "We can review the troops together and then go, but I do have to tell Huw or his representative a few things," Fiona half-agrees, passing under the archway of the palace entrance. "Once those two things are done, we can ... discuss what we'll do next. How does that sound?"

     He goes stark red at that. A full on crimson that claims his cheeks, shoots down his neck (and his spine, but his clothing hides that) and turns the blue dragons violet. Davydd barks a laugh, filling the halls with the quick, loud sound of it, but he stays blushed. There's just no getting that to go away.
     "I'm sure he won't mind. I'll try to keep it to a minimum," his hand comes up and boyishly rakes along the nape of his neck (since it's on fire with his flush) and up through his copper hair. Clearing his throat, Davydd hums a bit, taking a sudden interest in the surrounding architecture.
     He passes the rest of the walk in relative quiet, concentrating on redistributing the blood and the energy that flashed to his cheeks in emblazoned embarrassment. "Oh, far be it from me to interfere in the matters of a queen, however new or old she may be," he rumbles on. Green eyes flicker to you. I can't believe you said that.
     "I'm not that big," he chuckles finally, ears going pink. "I mean you may beg to differ but it's hardly standing in the way of me getting dressed in the mornings..."

     It makes Fiona smug. Can you see it, radiating off of her like heat from the sun on a particularly sultry day? She glances at you sidelong, the smile quirking at the corners of her mouth as she plants one dainty bared foot ahead of the other. "I'm sure he won't," she agrees sedately, slowing her pace so that you and she walk in tandem.
     She reaches for your hand, letting hers bump against yours and then kind of just ... sticking there, curling against your palm. "Speaking as the woman who's been bent in various positions to take you, I can safely say that I sometimes wonder how you get around that thing," Fiona retorts, "and definitely how you ever rode a horse. It just looks to me like it must hurt. Not," she hums it, sighs it, laughs a little bit in the back of her throat, "that I'm complaining. Darling..."
     And there is the fields, and there are the regiments. The centaurs, the satyrs, the elves, and even humans. Arrayed in four groups they are, each regiment broken into squadrons. Four sets of four. Commanding sergeants or equivalent in front of each squadron, commanding officers arranged in a line in front of each regiment, and the highest ranked ahead of the entire lot. Eyes forward, boys - eyes forward...

     "I think you have me confused with someone else," Davydd smirks, his coloring starting to return to normal as his hand interlaces with your own. "Ah, there're the men... and others," his voice lifts a bit as he deftly changes subject, your line of soldiers coming into view.
     A motley bunch, but then here few armies are homogenous. Davydd lifts your hand for a kiss but then he releases it. You should walk onto the field as their queen. I'm just some bloke in the back.

     Among the elves are the newest arrivals -- those of the Armies of the Four Winds -- or, rather, their representatives. Thunder and Lightning for the West; Fire and Brimstone for the South; Hail and Cyclones for the East; Blizzard and Frost for the North. The Princes of the four winds stand in company, their own standards blowing in the direction of their individual gusts...
     Ahead of all armies is Huw and Aurelius, marching in their very distinct and individual grandeur. Huw in his motley satyrical garments. Aurelius in his golden armor with oiled and golden locks spilling down his back beneath his combed helmet. "Present ... for the queen!" his voice raises over all the field. No one can match a centaur's yell.
     Each regiment in turn "presents arms", each salute differing by custom. "Hail, Your Majesty!" each regiment calls out.

     It is ridiculous how easily pleased she is. Fiona colours very faintly, first at the kiss and then at the hail, even as she comes to a halt at the head of all of the gathered armies. "Here we go," she murmurs sidelong to you, even as she gathers herself up to her full height. She's still barefoot; that's less of a height than might otherwise seem.
     She is clad in the red and black leather and silks, not wearing any crown save for the glory of her golden hair. And she comes to a full halt, turning the weight of her azure gaze upon the field, upon the many soldiers that have gathered for her inspection. There is a weight to the moment - to the realizations which occur, which must occur, the cause and effect of it all. Perhaps you can sense that weight. The truth of being a queen...
     Fiona stands, hands together over her stomach, a light press of palms together as she lifts her chin in acknowledgment. Without gesture or word, the earth rises behind her and under her, forming a slightly raised chair, a somewhat rounded throne of smooth, water-washed stones with ivy and small white and purple flowers twining around the base. She seats herself, hands on the arms of the chair, sitting straight; and when she speaks, it is in a quiet voice which nonetheless carries across the field. "As you were."
     Fiona shows no sign of nerves, no sign of tremors. There is no sign of panic or indication that this is at all out of the ordinary for her. But beneath the skin of her... I'm not entirely sure what the hell I'm supposed to do now, Davydd. Wait and see if Huw has plans, I suppose. Come stand near me at least and lend me your moral support, won't you?

     He's right there beside you, well... now your chair... his eyebrows still cocked up slightly from that bit of theatrics. His arms are folded against his chest in his trademark style, his own attention given to the gathered throng.
     As the soldiers pulls back into their relaxed stances, all well choreographed to be sure, Davydd studies them and glances to you, a quick wink slipped your way. You're doing fine. Formidable. Beautiful. Something to be respected and... among a few I am certain, adored.

     "Your Majesties," Huw says, a bow to both royals in presence. "My Queen," he says to Fiona. "Your armies salute you and present themselves for your inspection."
     Aurelius bows his head to you. "Your Majesties. My Queen, your personal guard stands in attendance."

     Arms still folded, Davydd leans over slightly. You can walk the line, you can ask for squadron leaders to present themselves to you, you can request they move in their parade formations so that you may mark how they move together as a unit.

     You can feel the face that she does not make but which is aimed at you nonetheless. Adored. Hah. The only ones who even pretend to adore me are you two. And I've made the chair because my back hurts. I'm pregnant, remember? With twins. Brute...
     And that adoration, it is mutual, isn't it? Even if Fiona is still so very convinced that she is not worthy of it, that it is illusory - that none but the two of you adore her (and it takes convincing and reminding, even then) - but despite her beliefs, she keeps her attention relaxed, alert and focused without strain as she watches her men.
     How ironic is it that she has men...
     "Lord General," Fiona greets Huw first, a gracious smile curving the corners of her mouth, "and Captain. I am prepared for the squadron leaders to present themselves to me as representative of their squadrons. I would do that first, so that I might know them, and they might know who it is that they have sworn to."
     It is one of her little thoughtfulnesses, the ones she does not think of as such; the attention to details, a fineness which is lacking in some. How can a man serve a queen that is forever remote, faceless save for on banner or poster or coin? She sits there readily, head canted, smile intact. "I will walk the line once they have been presented, and then I shall address - for I have an announcement to be made. At your command, gentlemen."
     While I admit it is tempting to see them move, and tempting, too, to remain in my seat, you can feel the faint grimace, it is more important that they see me as I really am. I can see them at maneuvres later or another time. Fiona glances just briefly to you, the smile still there, glowing a bit more warmly for looking at you. If you have anything to say, of course - you're welcome to, darling. You are, after all, an experienced king...

     No, no... you g'on with it. I was never this formal. We'd meet in the mud and the rain in a great circle. Very low-fi. A smile creeps across his expression as he looks from them to you. The king is content to watch. He'd rather watch you in action anyway. I'll play with your armies later...

     Both Huw and Aurelius turn -- with Aurelius' tail now visible in its Palomino platinum, plaited intricately with gold plate. "Squadron leaders," Aurelius booms. "Forward for inspection!"
     There are drummers embedded among the soldiers here, each company with its own march-time keepers. These make themselves known as the squadron leaders march forward: centaurs, elves, humans and satyrs. Huw and Aurelius turn about face and march off to the side to give you full view of your approaching commanders.
     The centaur squadron leaders are marvelous to behold. One has a shire build, dappled and silver with armor to match and a long black mane with a tall black helmet comb to match. He is armed with swords -- he is your heavy cavalry. One has an arabian build, black fur and black skin, his armor bronze and his tail held in a high and gorgeous flag as he prances forward, armed with a lance -- he is your light cavalry. One has the tall and swift build of a thoroughbread, a red sorrell with a golden mane and tail, his armor golden. He is armed with crossbows on each hand -- your striking force. The fourth sqaudron leader has the build of a quarterhorse, huge hidequarters and a great muscled chest. He is armed with an axe -- your beserker strength.
     Each moves to stand before you. Each salutes you with their eyes fixed forward. They wait upon your pleasure or your command.

     The elves are represented by three - as things are forever in threes and sevens among the elves. A slight figure, wiry and agile with a shock of dark brown hair that's been slicked back for the occasion - he is the Master of Scouts, an archer non pareil. Reconaissance division. And he walks between two taller figures. The one on the left is slender, graceful, even willowy of build, her own hair platinum and eyes grey. The closest equivalent that they have to a medical corps - those who go onto the field sometimes even during battle to try to drag wounded out of the way. And the foot soldiers of the elves, with swords and shields - they are represented by a tall, broadly built (for an elf) pointed-eared man whose hair is as pale as his female companion's, eyes as grey - but whose armour, brilliantly shining as it is, is marked by a red curlicue over the right breast and arm.
     The men are represented by only two. They are newcomers, relatively speaking - holdovers, perhaps, from other places in the Marches, or strays, perhaps. But their representation leaves little in doubt as to capability, if appearance is any indication; two burly men who look to be half bear, black hair bristling and armour flashing in the light of the torches held by their standard-bearers. They represent their foot soldiers, wielders of lance and pike, and knights errant with massive greatswords.
     There's the roll of a smile on Fiona's lips for your thought and for your presence, and she settles herself more comfortably in her self-created throne. She is presently, after all, very pleased with herself, with her life - allowing herself a small measure of self-esteem, a few crumbs of it. For the moment.
     She watches the approach. She watches, and she listens, and again there is that gracious, easy nod. "I am pleased to receive you, and to give you the acknowledgment which is your due." Her gaze flickers over each in turn, no sign of ill judgment in her expression. "The Lord General has done well in his assemblage of you. Will you tell me your names?"
     Names hold power, even names of calling - is she asking for names, or Names? But she is a queen. And for all her uncertainty, right now she seems to have no doubts as to what she does.

     "Athamas," speaks the smooth-voiced shire, deep tones to his voice, his jaw is square and strong, his face clean-shaven and smooth as he removes his Trojan-styled helmet, tucking it beneath his arm.
     "Ceyx," the arabian-bodied lancer speaks, his form lean and lovely. His face is as lovely, with gold rings in his ears, visible when he removes the helmet and tucks it beneath his arm.
     "Hippolytus," the archer speaks, his hair curled and oiled, his face very similar to Aurelius'. Perhaps they are related.
     "Kolya," the axe-wielding centaur speaks, his voice heavy and rough. But his face seems gentle. Even with the scar that runs from his left eye to his chin.

     Davydd looks on, speaking not a word. Nor thinking of them either. He surveys the humans, elves, satyrs and centaurs alike.

     The Master Scout makes a fist, pressing it against his breast. "Darimas," he says easily, bowing over his hand and then straightening. His motions are quick, smooth and fluid, like water rippling through leaves.
     The Healer smiles slightly, bowing her head to the queen. "Ramina," she says quietly, sinking into a slight curtsey and then straightening again. She turns slightly towards the remaining member of the trio of elves.
     He steps forward in turn, making the same tight fist as Darimas and pressing it to over his heart as he bows. "Ramanthus," he declares, straightening swiftly and then stepping back in line.
     The two humans step forward solidly at the same time, and the one on the left speaks for them both. "Warrick and Fessin," he rumbles, voice almost echoing in the massive chest. He sets his pike sturdily beside himself, looking to Fessin, who nods.
     Fiona smiles, then rises to her feet upon the shallow dais of the throne. "It is my very great pleasure to become acquainted with all of you," she says gravely. "I thank you for the introductions; and now, if all is quite prepared, I will walk the line and then make my address. Lord General, if all is in readiness?"
     She expects that it is. So much so, that she dismisses the throne back to the dust and earth from which it came, remaining standing lightly upon her own two feet. Better be prepared to catch me, comes Fiona's wry-humoured thought. Just in case I faint, right? Pregnant women are supposed to be delicate and easily frightened, aren't they?

Posted by rowan at July 21, 2005 08:11 PM