If you look at London from above, at night...
Particularly at night...
Her modern highways, her roundabouts, her river forms an interlinking knot that has no beginning and has no ending. Few see this view of the city, for to see it you have to be able to fly...
I have seen it. It is fixed in my mind's eye. It is echoed on my skin...
It has no Beginning. It has no End.
It is in London's center...
In the valley formed by her tall buildings...
Where steps land, an automobile left behind. Autumn fog swirls, lifting and lowering like the heads of obedient hounds trailing their master's coat. And of that grey, the wool of his overcoat is as much a cloak. Ending at his calves, against the grey wool of his trousers. The water that collects in the gutters reflects the streetlight and the image of the man...
White silk turtleneck grasps the form of the Dragon prince. The chest of an archer, the tapered sides of a lancer. And where it must grasp against him, and in the passing of lights, there is a swirl of blue upon his torso...
An interlocking knot...
It is mid evening. The last blush of Day is gone. The sky has gone deep violet, streaked with grey that promises rain.
Morriston...
When he steps within, there is an unfolding smile. A peeling away of the self. Layers like clothing discarded, littering the wake of energy he leaves behind. He is his own announcement. Knowing you will know it...
Knowing you see him, even as he makes his way past a revolving door. It circles a full rotation behind him...
Grey gloved hands leave the overcoat's pockets, and empty-handed he strides down a half-lit passage. In and out of light. But light... seems to linger on him...
Illuminating the march of Mars...
Clinging on the heels of Mercury's quick stride...
Davydd doesn't touch it, the purple case enclosed in coat's inner, breast pocket. But he feels it. It hums past the silk sweater's fabric and brushes against a tattooed dragon's mouth.
Certainly she sees you. And as you head towards the security desk, three men bob their head expectantly. Within their consoles, several monitors glow. You are expected, indeed, and one of the guards leaves his post, taking up a position behind and at your side to walk you to the elevator, which stands open.
He enters, turning around quickly to retrieve a key that's entered into one of the locks on the door panel. A card comes out, and presses against the silver....
"The door will close, sir, and take you where you need to go." Automatically, even.
And so he did...
Davydd stepped in the door closed behind him. A lean back against the box that contains him, moves him. And his mouth cocks a ready smile. Lilting as it winds like the old Severn. He remebers when he first rode one of these damn things. When his hands grasped the rail and he looked to the ceiling. It was like being lifted by the hand of the Almighty.
Now, it's over before he knows it...
The door opens and he is out of it. A step over its threshold, when green eyes lift, sparkling to what and whom might be waiting. And off come the gloves -- it's the gentlemanly thing to do...
Duw, Davydd ap Gwynedd -- aren't you civilized these days...
A foyer. Waterfall on either side. The sleek black and silver interiors of the Morriston Building belies the aged exterior. Orchids rest in color within alcoves of onyx. Two other men nod upon seeing you approach. If there was any metal on you, they would know it by now. Amazing how one can search someone trapped in a moving box.
"Sir," one of them says, opening a black door. The second remains at his post near his console, lit by the gentle glow of the recessed lights.
He came with nothing...
Nothing within the folds of his coat. Nothing tucked into trousers...
The Land Rover, however, is another story...
He comes only with himself, his hands, and the violet leather tucked away from view.
Falling water. It chimes to the senses. He can hear the voices in the water. Soft and lilting, like the sound of his own singing. He can feel the water by the coolness of the air as he passes. He can taste it, as scent captures flavor and spills it upon his tongue.
Chlorine. Slate...
Davydd steps past the black door, a green glance tossed over his shoulder. But eyes are forward after. Red hair, cut short modern, is copper midway between metal and fire. The rest is shades of a Winter King. Grey and white and a hint of hidden blue...
"Good evening, Cymri," Isabella purrs in your own tongue, rising from her seat. She is dressed sharply in a black suit...or is that violet in this light...her hair pulled back into a bun. "It is a pleasure. It has been -- a very, very long time." Centuries, perhaps.
Moving around the onyx desk causes Isabella to tick the marble floor. Unreal, she is, her pale skin so stark against the darkness of her office, the blackness of the city, river, and outlying south and west lands beyond.
In the massive room, there seems little. Black walls most certainly disguise slots with items safely held within. The truth of it is quickly revealed as some feet away, a panel slides down, revealing bottles in the nook. That is where her feet take her. "A drink for you, perhaps?" She eschews such displays. "Or something else?"
"Nos dda, Bella..." And now the smile cuts broad. A wide swath, warmth against radiance. "After three hundred years," and some odd, "...I shall not turn down a gift of drink. Scotch or the nearest Celtic equivalent, os gwelwch yn dda," if you please, the Welsh rolls between you...
Like water over stones...
Cascading tongue, it lilts and drops like a waterfall...
The gloves are off, as well the jacket, draping over a chair near that onyx desk. There's an exhale, hand through hair, and Davydd pivots toward you. "Had I known you had a magical wetbar, I would not have tarried so long," the cadence dances humorous, even if quiet. It is good to see you, Childe of Diana. Look at all we have at our feet...
She smiles, though most would be discomfited by it. Not a tall woman, she may stand all of two inches shorter than you. Yet, Isabella has been feared most of her immortal life. Despite it, she pours you a drink anyway, aroma wafting scotch. "Everyone should have a magical bar for their guests," she postulates, "...in fact, everyone..." and now she is done, turning to face you, "...should have magic itself, Welyn," nodding gently at it.
"The world would be so different," Isabella goes on. "So very different. Do you remember," she taps over, offering the glass, "...when the world was filled with magic?" Real or imagined.
"And every star," issues that heady tenor, far more earthy than smooth, "...was a portent. And every storm seemed like the end of the World, oes, Isabella, I do remember it." And still he does not sit. Rather, he takes a kind of half lean against your desk.
Most are discomfited by you both. What discomfit should either of you have around one another. Better to call it what it is: Respect.
"It's still around. That we choose to ignore it, well..." hands spread a moment, "...what is the world to do with that." And then the scotch is plucked. "Diolch," Davydd murmurs.
He lifts the glass to his mouth, the first sip of the scotch taken by the sense of smell. And then a sip and swallow. The finest. What else. The sort that steals your soul before you know you've hit the bottom of your glass.
"You and I, we understand this. And so," Davydd cuts a smile as he sets the glass down upon your desk. It will be sipped and finished by and by. "... a comet streaked across the sky the hour of my birth," the Welsh lilts poetic sing-song, speaking an old myth, "... and omens littered the sky like stars. I think that is how they used to tell it." Radiance. There is a shimmering around him in his laughter, in the comet streak of his smile.
"That is how they used to tell it," Isabella says after you. When Diana roamed the earth still. Every thing had meaning, and every day...night...was a rebirth.
"Slainte," she finally adds as you drink, a dose of good health and cheer.
"And so, I wonder what brings you here, but I can guess. You have seen Robert?"
That is how they used to tell it...
When Diana roamed the earth still...
When dragons lived on earth, in sea and battled in the lighting that moved across the sky.
"Yes, I have, the dear man." Anyone who speaks of Robert must tack on the epithet. He's never met anyone who could speak of Robert without it. Peppered in among the business: Robert... yes, he's a dear man.
Green eyes settle on you, and in the folding of his arms against his chest, glass held now in a lifted hand, the silk knit of the turtleneck pulls against Living Wales beneath. Blue here. Blue there. Vibrant and yet concealed. Dragons live still.
"I've come to tell you in person what you will hear tomorrow. I would not have it any other way, Isabella." And it's only you, My Lady, to whom I feel an obligation political. Obligation... well, it is an old thing between us. Sins of the father being what they are. Green eyes, deep forest and Welsh meadows sparkle. "I'm returning to Cymru."
Returning to Cymru?
No, no, she had not heard that one.
Leaning against the table, Isabella fades into the darkness. A brow lifts, her lips pushing outwards. It is nothing as she expected.
"You are certain of this?" she asks. "This is your will?" Without hint of magic or blackmail. There are no questions of why or why not. Those she cares not about. Just that...this is your plan.
"As certain as I am," Davydd speaks as he nods, once... no twice. No, thrice. Slowly, "...that there is magic in the world." There's a lift of his mouth with it, but it's not spoken in jest, spoken facetiously. His soft voice echoes truth. You know it when you hear it.
A sip of scotch, and the glass is set down again and Davydd's arms unfold. "I have been thinking of this since I moved into Kensington Palace. Of what I mean to London, what London means to me, and of ... older loyalties, old as the rivers." Yes, Childe of Diana The Pagan -- perhaps you are the only one who could truly understand this.
"My answer," fiery eyebrows arch and the smile dawns on his face, his mouth. "... came so subtle, I nearly missed it. But..." he nods again. "It is right, Isabella. It is right that I do it this way."
Her head nods, silver light reflecting from obsidian-colored bun.
Isabella sighs, the first sign of any air exchanged. She moves back around the large table, hand as pivot upon the cold onyx. It caresses, her fingers, the touchstone.
"When are you leaving?" she finally asks. No sense of disappointment in her features, no joy. Simple acceptance. "Does this mean that you will continue to visit the City?"
"I'm not letting London off that easy," comes the warm quip and then Davydd nods, turning about. Finally, he sits. Even if he may not sit for long. "Oes...I will visit the city. At least once per season." Green eyes sparkle. "Nothing's as certain as death and taxes. Of course I will maintain a presence in London. And I leave ...hmm... in a week. About that, give or take..." Arms relax against the arms of the chair, he makes himself comfortable, like he is becoming the chair.
"Those who lead us forth," he quotes the key. And he mulls upon that for a moment. "I think I shall serve London best by leading without seeming to lead," Davydd says quietly. "We, who understand the place of magic," copper brows lift, "... know the value of subtlety." He smiles.
Isabella's come to stand near her black leather chair. Highbacked. If she wanted, she could turn her back on the world, hidden within its comfort. But you sit, she remains standing.
"You're an optimist. Too many who know magic know nothing of subtlety, Davydd. You know this as well." Isabella looks down at the chair, as if pondering what to say next. "That is it then," she nods. "A choice made," her violet eyes looking at you again, yet down her nose. "If it is your choice, then it is a good one,' she agrees. "Then...be well in Cymri, Davydd. Time will pass, things will change. That is the way of living. And here, we shall go on, looking for the next turn of the Wheel."
"Spoken as a true daughter of Arianrhod," Goddess of the Wheel of Life. Soft breath carries his words, and Davydd is standing again. A hand upon the onyx, and his right extended to you. "Things will change, and in their changing they'll remain the same." The Welsh falls from him, cadence lifting, lowering.
"We must not let three centuries go by again without sharing a drink and a little philosophy... I will be well in Cymru. Be well in Old Sarum..."
Ah, Sarum. Such a backwoods place, compared to the open lands of Dorset...
"I will," Isabella nods politely, hand upon the back of her chair. There she blends in, already ceasing to be visible to the world. "Next time, it shall not be so long..."
"You must come to Cymru... come to Powys," he says, straightening. A hand reaching out, grey wool lifted. "I'll arrange a comet with the gods, for old portent's sake." Green eyes sparkle in a wink and grey coat is shrugged onto his shoulders, settled around him. He feels the weight of the key in his pocket. And as his left hand reaches for his gloves, tucked in his pockets, his right hand touches at his chest.
I should return it...
But his hand pauses there. No, no -- I will keep the spirit of England with me for a while. You do not remove your support, I do not remove my duty, the key is not removed from the coat. "Come for the old fire festival. We will roam the earth some late October." Old Samhain.
Davydd smiles and moves from the chair. Gloves on his hand now. "Diolch. The scotch was a delight. I will be sure to tell Dunross he has an honest challenge to his stores..."
You remember him, right?
Her eyes narrow at mention of comets and hearths. Those days are long gone, but still with her. Isabella only smiles at your offer, but when was the last time she was in lands West? "Thank you for the invitation," she says sweetly, both hands upon her seat.
And now, you bring up Dunross. Isabella's head quirks, not sure of that comment. Dunross. A whelp of a noone, now a someone. She simply smiles, having little to say on that.
"Good night, Davydd," she not expecting the key back, seemingly. Reaching down, Isabella pushes a button, and not more than a few seconds later, the door begins to creak open.
You should get out more, lass. The Old Man's long gone. We can come out of the shadows of our modern cairns. We can move freely beyond Life. We, who walk the road between Life and Death...
And so it's not returned. No, he keeps it. Just because he's moving to Cymru doesn't mean he won't be leading...
"Nos dda, Isabella, and be well." As you no doubt shall.
He is a vision of departing grey. A pause at the opening door and green eyes glimmer. A glance past his shoulder. And the lift of a smile.
So goes the Cymri...
There's a breath as he exits the building, as his overcoat settles after the first rush of night air. And standing water in the gutters and in puddles along the sidewalk shimmer with the promised rain.
Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 01:11 AM
