The Rave


Folly manages to behave herself for the duration of the ceremony and reception. Once Ever and his crew have departed the castle, however, she tracks down Martin.

"You clean up well, sweetheart," she says when she finally catches him alone. "I have to admit, though, I prefer you rumpled." Her smile suggests she'd like nothing better than to do the rumpling.

"I'm glad there are advantages to reverting to my native state," says Martin, who already looks a bit less pressed after having performed best man duties at the wedding and feast, made sure the luggage was ready, seen Lucas and Solace off, etc., etc., etc.

"It's been a long day. I'm glad we're off duty now." He grins at Folly.

"Shit, me too. My poor tongue is swollen, I had to bite it so many times." She demonstrates this fact by sticking it waaaaay out. "If I don't go do something fun right now, someone's gonna' get hurt." She bounces on her toes, full of restless energy. "Care to join me?"

"I'm in. Do I keep the monkey suit, or are we changing? Not that you need to or anything, unless you want to avoid striking everyone who sees you down with the sight of your radiant beauty."

Folly rolls her eyes at the compliment, but also blushes. "I think we should change -- I'm sick of looking presentable, and anyhow, I'm in the mood to do something hot and sweaty and active. Wild dancing and wild sex would be my top two choices -- not necessarily in that order -- but I'm open to other suggestions." She grins, but doesn't meet his eyes.

Martin hesitates for a moment, then says, "I know a place where there's not that much difference. If we can't get there, we can get somewhere like it. You game for a ride?"

"Yeah," she says, relaxing visibly, as though he'd just taken a large weight from her. "Sounds perfect. Sounds like... like home." Smiling, she looks up at him. "Get changed and come by my room when you're ready to go, OK?" She turns to leave, then stops and turns toward him again, giving him a chance to back out if he wants to, but clearly hoping he won't.

Martin just smiles, sort of all happy with a tinge of sadness around the edge that Folly can see only because she knows him very well.

He's at her door in about ten minutes, wearing his leather jacket and a pair of leather pants that might well have been painted on. "At some point in the evening," he says, "I plan on riding something with more power than a horse, so dress accordingly."

Folly beams, a bundle of excitement and anticipation. "Oh, my day is about to get a hell of a lot better," she says. She, too, changes into leather pants -- the purple ones she was wearing her last night in Texorami -- and a loose black poet's shirt, which she knots just above her navel. "Rock 'n' roll," she says as she grabs a jacket from the back of her desk chair. "Let's get outta' here. And have I said 'thank you' yet? I totally owe you for this."

"You're more than welcome. I wouldn't take enough breaks if you didn't make me, though, so I owe you."

The guards and stablehands, who are more than used to the odd comings and goings of Royals, barely notice Martin and Folly as they pick out a horse and ride off into Arden. Folly can almost hum along with Martin's shifting of Shadow, as he picks elements to add and subtract from the world the way he'd pick out notes on his guitar.

After a while, they come to a place with a livery stable, where Martin leaves the horse. Martin catches a cab into the city and pays the cabbie with money Folly is sure in her own mind he didn't have in his jacket when he started. Then it's a walk down into a district that might well frighten Folly if she weren't with a man she was sure could lift a car and take a couple of bullets without breaking much of a sweat.

Folly feels the bass line long before Martin knocks on the door of the warehouse. It's pulsing, powerful, familiar yet not quite so. Inside, it's like other raves Folly has attended, but somehow different. The sounds and the sights and the scents are all somehow more than she ever noticed before. It's somehow more primal, sharper-edged, as if her mind were expanded already, and she hasn't even had any drugs yet.

The warehouse is empty of goods, but there are industrial structures like an air-conditioning system and catwalks. The mountain of sound gear, the bar, and other necessaries combine with the original warehouse furnishings to provide a host of nooks and crannies where dancers can retreat.

Martin vanishes, and Folly is lost in the blinking whirling lights for a moment until she sees him talking to the bartender, then to a man on the edge of the crowd. When he returns, he has a bottle of beer and a handful of pills. He gives her two, and tosses the rest back himself with a long pull from the bottle. Folly thinks she'd OD on half as much as he just took.

The dance floor is packed with people moving to the rhythm of the music. Some are dancing; others are touching and kissing to the beat. Folly suspects the nooks and crannies host even more intimate explorations, musical and otherwise.

"Wanna dance?" says Martin, his eyes a little dilated.

Folly smiles dreamily, entranced by the beat. She swallows the pills and, without a word, takes Martin's hand and leads him onto the dance floor.

At first, she spins and grinds next to Martin without actually touching him, her movements almost violent as she thrashes away months of propriety and decorum and frustration. Gradually, though, her initial burst of angry energy dissipates, and her movements become more fluid, more sensual. She reaches out to Martin, pulling him to join her in the warm cocoon of the music. She dances very close to him, reading his body, anticipating his movements, running her hands over his arms, his torso, his hips.

Somewhere beyond the blurred edge of the universe lies a reason or two she's not supposed to be doing this, she's pretty sure, but that seems so much less important than this beautiful, sharp-edged and urgent reality right in front of her that she can't seem to make herself care. She presses her body against his and looks up at him with parted lips, tempting him, daring him, to kiss her.

Martin picks Folly up, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close against his body as he moves in time with her and the music. For a moment, she thinks he will kiss her, but his lips just touch the corner of her mouth. It's as if he can't quite say yes to the implied question, but can't quite say no, either.

At the touch of his lips, Folly quivers so hard she's a little surprised Martin doesn't drop her. She clasps her hands behind his head to steady herself, her fingers instinctively caressing his neck, seeking out the sensitive spots along the hairline that always used to drive Syd wild. Trembling, she presses her cheek to his and whispers, "Please," not nearly loud enough to be heard over the pounding music. She remains there, shaking, for many moments, until the beat, his movement, his warmth and closeness make her forget her inhibitions. She turns her head and kisses him.

Martin kisses Folly back fiercely, almost violently, oblivious to the others around them. When the music changes again, he carries her from the dance floor into a tiny nook, hidden away behind some of the huge speakers, and empty, of course, as there was a reasonable probability it would be. He presses her up against the wall with the full weight of his body, one hand cradling her head, running his fingers through her purple-streaked locks, and the other supporting her from beneath.

He hasn't spoken a single word.

Folly wraps her legs around Martin's waist, rocking against him to the beat of the music. Then she unlaces her collar and tilts her head back against Martin's hand, offering him her smooth white neck.

Amid the heady haze of her desire, the tiny, still-rational part of her brain emits one last feeble protest: "Stupid girl, you should've worn a skirt."

Martin's mouth is warm against Folly's throat as he kisses the line of her jaw and then down the edge of her collar.

Without warning he stops, pulling his head back, and shudders in a way that might be an inaudible sob. With the hand that had been behind Folly's head, he draws out something from inside her shirt -- a stone on a black silk cord, flashing in deep red with hints of orange and brown and yellow in the flickering lights of the warehouse.

Folly winces.

"Oh, god, Martin -- I... I'm sorry," she stammers. Maybe it's the acoustics of the little nook, or maybe Folly is using some kind of singer's vocal trick, but Martin hears her clearly, even though she's not speaking loudly. "It's nothing, really -- a good luck charm. A prayer that he'll come home safe. I am so sorry, baby. I don't want to hurt you...." She is trembling with fear as she wraps her arms around him and holds him tight.

As Folly moves to embrace him, Martin lets go of the stone. It falls to hang between her breasts like a leaden weight; Folly is certain that he can feel it pressed into his skin through their shirts as she holds him close.

With one hand Martin is still supporting Folly's weight (although if she indicates a need to be put down, he does so); his other hand is braced against the wall. His face is buried in Folly's shoulder; his own shoulders are shaking as if he's gasping for breath.

He says nothing.

"Fuck," mutters Folly, slamming her fist into the wall behind her. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" She takes a deep breath, then another, trying to push aside her fear, her confusion, her anger. As her trembling stops, she unclenches her fist and strokes Martin's hair. Her body seems to soften against his, her chest relaxing just enough that she's no longer pressing the offending rock against him. She rests her cheek against his hair and murmurs, "Shhh, baby, it's OK, everything's going to be fine, no harm done," hoping that saying it will make it so.

It takes Martin a little while, but his breathing does even out and eventually he raises his head and looks at Folly. What he says is, "It's OK, Folly. It just kept us from doing something we'd both regret afterwards."

Folly gives Martin a weak smile and asks, "What makes you think I'd regret it?"

"You love him."

"Yeah," Folly says drily. "Yeah, I do -- deeply, desperately, and stupidly." She scowls as she fingers her pendant through the fabric of her shirt.

Martin, although certainly not tired of carrying Folly's full weight, decides that this would be a good moment to put her down. He gently disengages her legs from around his body and sets her standing on the floor of the warehouse. But he doesn't let go of her.

When she speaks again, her words are bitter. "But in the first place, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference when I live someplace where people get forced into marrying someone who doesn't even have the decency to be a bitch so I can stop worrying about hurting her --"

Martin's expression is completely dismissive of Vialle.

"-- and in the second place, it doesn't keep me from loving other people, as you might have noticed." Her features relax into the tiniest hint of a smile. "And you're way more my type than she is."

"I know," Martin says, and that's not without his own bitterness. "And I love you, Folly. But he's my father."

"Well, he's my fucking uncle," Folly says, then winces at the unintentional appropriateness of her expletive. "I'm sorry, sweetie," she says meekly. "I'm still a little weirded out by this whole thing. I know it's true, but at the same time it all seems kind of impossible, y'know? I keep half-expecting this person you all call 'Random' to come home and not be the person I knew at all. I mean, how could Syd be your father? Brother, sure. Younger brother. I'd buy that." She pauses, and a look of deep sadness crosses her face. "Or maybe he'll be Syd, but he won't be the person I thought I knew. People change." She shrugs and looks away.

Martin touches Folly's cheek, gently bringing her face back around to look at him. "I don't think Dad's going to stop loving you just because he's not in Texorami any more. But now you've seen how things are different in Amber -- you've got some idea of what he was getting away from -- and you know that it will make a difference. It has to. It's making a difference in you, too, you know."

Folly looks glum, like she's not convinced she's changed for the better.

He lets out a long breath. "If we're going to talk about all this, we should go somewhere that we can hear ourselves think. Coffee?"

This makes Folly smile. "I've got an even better idea. I'll be back in a second --" and she's off to talk to the bartender before Martin can respond.

She returns a couple of minutes later, carrying a paper towel covered with hastily scribbled directions. "Mission accomplished -- c'mon!" she says with a grin. She won't tell Martin where they're headed; she just slips an arm around his waist and leads him out into the night for a brisk walk through the warehouse district, pausing every now and then to double-check the directions.

When the music of the rave finally fades in the distance, Folly begins singing a song of her own. It seems to be about waffles, mostly, so Martin isn't at all surprised when their destination turns out to be an all-night diner.

The place is about half full, the clientele equal parts pierced-and-tattooed club kids and middle-aged shift workers. They find a quiet booth in the corner, recently abandoned, judging by the cigarette still smouldering in the ashtray. When they've settled in, Folly reaches for Martin's hand across the table. "I hope this is OK," she says. "I was suddenly in the mood for comfort food. And, I don't know, talking about yucky complicated emotional stuff just seems a lot less scary when you're surrounded by yellow vinyl."

Martin says, "I don't see what's so complicated," then breaks off as the waitress approaches to clear the table and take your drink orders. Martin wants coffee, of course.

Folly opts for hot chocolate.

When she's out of earshot, Martin continues: "It's like this: you love him, and he loves you. And that really doesn't leave a lot of room for me, not the way I do the math. And don't say you can love more than one person at once; even though it's true, it doesn't make any difference now. After he's come back and you've had a chance to sort things out, maybe. But not now, and I think you know it."

"Well, sure," Folly says, "it sounds simple when you put it that way...." She picks absently at a crack in the vinyl booth. "But here's the thing -- how can you be so damned sure that he loves me when I'm not even sure? Not that it changes what I ought to do -- wait and see and sort it all out when he gets back. It just makes the waiting a lot harder."

"Not just for you, kiddo."

Coffee and hot chocolate appear, and the waitress takes your order. Martin orders the heartiest breakfast on the menu, something that some of the more granola-y folks in Folly's circle in Texorami might have described as a heart attack on a plate.

Folly orders waffles and hash browns. When the waitress points out that that's two starches and she really ought to get some protien, too, Folly suggests with a grin that she'll just absorb her protein from the steam off Martin's plate.

After the waitress goes to put in your order, Martin continues his train of thought. "I can't be a hundred percent certain that Dad's still madly in love with you, Folly. But I have a certain insight into how he thinks. I personally think he'd be an idiot to let you go, so I base my operating assumptions on that."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time -- that he'd be an idiot, I mean."

He smiles a bit ruefully. "And besides, really, what's the risk of holding out? If he comes home next week and you two ride off into the sunset, you're both happy, and I'd be happy for you. But what if he came home and wanted you back, and found us -- well, you know? I don't think any of us would be happy about that. So all it could cost us is the time, and we have all of that we could possibly need."

Folly nods, but she's obviously still troubled. "I don't know how to say this," she says, "or even exactly what I want to say, so I'm just going to start talking and see how it turns out....

"I'm afraid you think I'm only interested in you because he's not around. To be honest, I was kind of worried about that myself, at first -- but I'm sure now that it's a hell of a lot deeper than that.

"Maybe he will come home and send the Etiquette Queen off to -- I don't know -- to look after whichever of his brothers winds up on the throne, or something; and maybe we will go riding off into the sunset; but as it turns out, that's not going to make me stop loving you, or... or wanting you." She glances away, as if reconsidering the wisdom of baring her soul, but when she turns back toward him, she looks deep into his eyes. "I don't want you to feel like my second choice, like the first runner up just sitting around waiting for the real winner to screw up -- it's not like that at all.

"Most of me totally agrees with everything you've said -- it's sensible and logical and right. But there's this small but very loud part of me screaming at the rest of me for being such an idiot, for not jumping at the chance to be with someone I really love just become some wanker who didn't even have the decency to say goodbye might get a little pissed about it. It just doesn't seem very fair to you, I guess."

Folly pauses, and her face goes blank for a moment as she tries to keep from getting too emotional. There's still a quaver in her voice, however, as she continues. "I love you, Martin, as much as I love him, even if it's in a somewhat different way. It makes me sick to think I'd ever have to choose between you, but I know full well it may come to that, eventually." She pauses again, and Martin can see the tears well up in her eyes, but she regains control before they can spill.

"So there you have it," she says. "I haven't really added anything to the discussion, I guess, but I wanted you to know how I feel. I promise I'll try to be good, and I'll try not to tempt you again like I did tonight. On the other hand, there's no way in hell I'm gonna' stop flirting with you." She smiles, though she still seems a little sad, and clasps both her hands around one of his.

Martin sits there for a long time, letting Folly hold his hand, smiling slightly, until the waitress arrives with the plate of greasy death and the waffles and hash browns. It occurs to Folly that he really did think he was a substitute or an also-ran, and is relieved to hear that he's not.

When the waitress is gone again, he says, "You know, Folly, I love you, and I'll still be here when Dad comes back and you've had a chance to think about what you really want." What he doesn't say is _If Dad dumps you on your butt again like a moron_ but Folly can tell he means that too.

"But things are complicated between me and him. You got him for what, several years? He and I have been ... family ... for several weeks. Up to then, I'd never even met him. So things are, I don't know -- fragile? -- between us. I don't want to take the chance of you getting away, but I don't want to ruin things with him, by, I don't know, moving in on his turf. And he's gonna have enough issues when he figures out about me and Vialle, y'know?"

Folly drops her fork, which ricochets off the seat and lands in the floor. She disappears under the table to pick it up; when she sits up again, her expression is placid -- maybe even a bit amused. "Are you certain he doesn't already know?" she asks, then adds, "And... um... if you don't mind my asking, what exactly is the story there, besides totally none of my business?"

Martin wipes his hand on his napkin and runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back. "It's a good thing I can tell you anything, because I guess I will." He smiles, a touch ruefully.

"When Vialle came to Grandmother's court, she was kind of a, a groupie, maybe?, although I gather later she finagled a post as a lady-in-waiting. I was young and stupid and, because I was a potential heir to the throne, a lot of women were interested in me. I was what they call a 'trophy fuck'. Vialle wanted to marry well, a wealthy woman's son, and I was a conduit to influential people, so, y'know?" He shrugs.

"I found Vialle to be ... ambitious and clingy ... pretty quickly, and dropped her. She carried sort of a public torch for me for a while, and it was embarrassing. It wasn't by any means a major factor in my decision to leave Rebma, but it was one more thing I wasn't sorry to be shed of.

"I think Grandmother forced Dad to marry her as sort of a vicious joke; it's the kind of humor she likes, and she'd pleased if it made me uncomfortable enough around Dad that he and I remained estranged. She blames him, you know? I think she really hates him.

"I don't think Dad knows about it because ... well ... just the way he said some things. I know Vialle would just be mortified if it all came out -- she's the grand lady now, wife to Prince Random, and everybody loves her. She doesn't understand that you can't keep secrets in Amber. It'll all come out somehow -- the best you can do it is control how and when. Which is one more reason for you and me not to do anything we wouldn't want to have Dad know about in the long run."

Folly nods. _It all makes sense now._

He breaks a piece of bacon in half and offers part of it to Folly.

She smiles as she takes it from him. "I just love it when a cute guy offers me his meat," she says.

Martin cracks a big grin.

She nibbles silently for a few minutes. Every few moments, a new emotion flits across her face: amusement, sorrow, curiosity, pain, embarrassment. It is the last that prompts her to speak again.

"God, was I like that with him? Clingy and, um, groupie-like, I mean. I hate to think so, but it's certainly possible -- when he met me, I was seventeen and madly in love with him. I'm sure I was a total airhead." She laughs and shakes her head.

From Martin: surprise, then a flash of protective anger. He hadn't realized how young Folly had been. "I can't imagine it was like that," he says, but doesn't elaborate.

Then, growing pensive, she says, "I wish I could tell you definitively that you shouldn't worry about the stuff with Vialle, that it'll be no big deal to him, but I don't really know. Things can get kind of weird when family is involved. I mean, when he and I were together, we both occasionally slept with other people, and it was never a big deal -- but at the same time, I only ever took him to my parents' house when Mum was out of town, because I knew she'd hit on him and I knew it would piss me off." Just talking about it seems to irritate her; she jabs at her waffle a few times with her fork.

Suddenly, a look of great amusement crosses her face. "Hey, are we sure I'm not related to this family on my mother's side?"

"Anything is possible, I suppose," says Martin. "Vialle and I are so over, though. Certainly on my end and I'm pretty sure on hers, too, if only because she wouldn't risk her position." The last word can only be described as contemptuous.

"And after Paige blew up over Violet, I am done assuming that people won't blow up over anything. Christ, Folly, can you imagine what Paige would say if she could have seen us fifteen or twenty minutes ago?"

"Ummm.... 'Can I play, too?'"

Even though Martin's flirtations in the past have intimated that he might not be averse to sharing under the right conditions, his visceral response to that suggestion is violently negative. He doesn't say anything, though.

"I know she's crazy about you, and it doesn't bother me about you two, but I'm no longer under the impression that the reverse is true."

"Well," says Folly a little hesitantly, "I don't think I'm betraying any confidences here -- Paige knows we're, um, quite fond of each other and has assured me that it wouldn't bother her if we did something about it. She sort of encouraged it, actually. I don't claim to understand her issue with you and Violet -- not completely, anyway -- but I don't think it'll extend to you and me. You're right, though -- you never know how people are going to take stuff.

"Actually, this brings up another point. You've probably noticed that I don't really broadcast the full details of my personal life for all the world to see. On the other hand, I try to be really honest with those who are close to me about things that concern them. So while I'm not gonna put 'almost got really good sex' in my bullet points for the next council meeting, if Paige asks me about you -- about us -- I'll probably let her know that we've talked about things -- unless you think even that might be a bad idea."

"I don't think you should talk to her about this. I think how Paige thinks she'll feel and how Paige will really feel won't be the same. You may be right about whatever her issue really was with Violet -- I don't think she'll care about the same things -- but I don't want you in the middle of our trouble. I've hurt enough people, and I don't want you hurt next."

Folly nods but doesn't say anything. She finishes her meal in a sort of contemplative silence.

When she has drained the last dregs of hot chocolate from her mug and slipped the last portion of her waffle onto Martin's plate, she says, "Y'know, when the evening started, I thought I needed some action to cheer me up -- but this was way better, I think." Though she doesn't say _thank you_, that's clearly what she means.

Martin just smiles at Folly.

Then she gets a devilish twinkle in her eyes. "But on the other hand, what was that about wanting to ride something with more power than a horse -- since I've figured out you weren't talking about me?" she says with a grin.

"Sadly," Martin says, tossing down cash on the table to cover the bill as he escorts Folly out of the diner.

"You wanna go for a ride or you wanna dance some more?" His eyes are still a touch too dilated, and if it hasn't occurred to Folly already, she may notice now that despite his incredible stamina and resistance to drugs and alcohol, Martin's high as a kite.

"Dance now, ride later?" says Folly hopefully. She is far more concerned that Martin's high will affect his memory of the evening than that it will impair his ability to keep them from dying in a high-speed crash.

[Martin will survive a high-speed crash a lot better than Folly.]

[Well, sure -- but she who used to fly with a similarly medicated pilot refuses to let a little thing like death-by-impact get in the way of her fun.... ]

"OK," he says and takes her back to the rave, retracing their steps through the warehouse district. The two of you can dance all night in the warehouse if you like, but eventually, with the coming of dawn, the rave will disperse.

Folly is still experiencing the world with extraordinary clarity, with all senses heightened and an awareness of her own strength and resilience. Perhaps she has been growing towards this all her time in Amber, but she has not been somewhere like her home for her to make a direct comparison until now.

About an hour before dawn, Folly suggests maybe it would be a good time for that ride. "We can go somewhere and watch the sunrise, maybe," she says, "since I only ever see it when I stay up this late."

Martin grins. He's still a little goofy, and his eyes are dilated in that happily medicated way.

The two of you find a bike, and are soon roaring off down a deserted road somewhere at high speed, hair whipping in the wind. Martin is almost certainly shifting to find you a place where it's dawn.

After a while, which is more than an hour but it's still not dawn yet, he stops on a deserted rocky beach. The two of you find a place to lie down on a grassy hillside and watch the sun rise. Martin lets Folly take the lead, perhaps not wanting to push things after all the heavy talk earlier.

Folly stretches out in the grass behind Martin so that he can lean his head against her stomach. As she stares at the sky through half-closed eyes, she runs her fingers through Martin's hair; he gets the impression she's paying more attention to him than to the sunrise, even if she's pretending the opposite. She's smiling a contented half-smile, like there's nowhere in the universe she'd rather be.

She lies there in silence, drinking it all in -- the pinks and peaches and purples creeping across the sky, the smell of the grass, the softness of Martin's skin as she runs her fingertips behind his ear and along his neck-- until the first bright rays of dawn break over the horizon. "Beautiful," she says as she closes her eyes, feeling the first hints of warmth on her face. "Thank you, Martin -- for everything."

"The thanks run both ways," Martin says from his resting spot on Folly's stomach. "This is the first time I've been happy since Grandfather died, I think." He smiles. "It's like you turned it all off ... I haven't felt like this in years, not since, since I don't even know when.

"We should do this more often."

"Agreed," says Folly, smiling. "Anytime."


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Last modified: 6 Jan 2002