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monkeybardCall of Creirwy
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 489
Universe: BBC
Genre: Magical Realism
Summary: It’s John’s turn to help.
Date: 6 July 2019
JWP #3: Bloody weather!: Include some meteorological elements in today's entry.
A/N: Probably part one of something, but only time (and prompts) can say.
“I’m always wet when you show up,” observed John. “Why is that, do you think?”
The ginger-and-vanilla corgi only cocked its head, the canine equivalent of a shrug.
John sat down on a stone bench. Like everything else in London, it was wet from the recent deluge, but so was he. He wasn’t going to get wetter by sitting down, and it felt good to get off his feet. To his surprise, the dog leapt up onto the seat next to him. She hardly seemed long-legged enough to do it but somehow she managed. He supposed it helped that she wasn’t actually a dog at all but rather Creirwy, the daughter of the goddess Cerridwyn.
“So, Beauty,” he went on, using the English name Winnie had offered in place of the Welsh one he couldn’t pronounce. “What brings you Trafalgar Square on this soggy spring day?”
She yipped once and belly crawled along the bench until she could lay her head on his thigh. She sighed mournfully.
“What’s wrong?” His brows drew together in a concerned frown.
Beauty whined pathetically and pawed at his leg. Something was definitely up.
“Is Winnie all right?”
Her whining increased, her big doggy eyes turned up towards him imploringly.
“God, I feel like an episode of Lassie. ‘Has Timmy fallen down the well?’”
Beauty whined louder and pawed harder, leaving dirty smears on the leg of his trousers. She barked once in obvious irritation.
“Sorry, sorry. Obviously this isn’t funny. Something’s wrong with Winnie, yeah?”
A bark and what he could only think of as a nod.
“And you think I can help her?” He found the idea dubious at best. She was a goddess, after all; he was just a mortal, and a relatively ordinary one at that.
Another bark. Another nod.
“Are you sure—and you know I hate to admit this— Are you sure you don’t want Sherlock?”
The dog’s frown was as eloquent as a growl, but she added one of those anyway.
He held up a placating hand. “All right. Fair enough.” To his surprise, Beauty sat up and took his hand gently in her mouth and tugged. “We’re going, are we? Okay.”
She let go and he stood up. “Where to?”
Scrambling down more awkwardly than she’d leapt up, Beauty found the pavement and took the lead.
John shivered in his wet clothes. “I don’t suppose we could stop at Baker Street so I can change into something dry?” he asked as he hurried after her.
She glanced back at him, barked once, and trotted on.
“Thought not.”
But by the time they reached the intersection, John realised he was dry. From his hair right through to his boots. Dry. He looked down at the corgi. “That you, was it? Thanks.” She’d probably done it more for expediency than for the sake of his personal comfort, but he still appreciated it. “Right. Let’s go help your mum.”
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 489
Universe: BBC
Genre: Magical Realism
Summary: It’s John’s turn to help.
Date: 6 July 2019
JWP #3: Bloody weather!: Include some meteorological elements in today's entry.
A/N: Probably part one of something, but only time (and prompts) can say.
“I’m always wet when you show up,” observed John. “Why is that, do you think?”
The ginger-and-vanilla corgi only cocked its head, the canine equivalent of a shrug.
John sat down on a stone bench. Like everything else in London, it was wet from the recent deluge, but so was he. He wasn’t going to get wetter by sitting down, and it felt good to get off his feet. To his surprise, the dog leapt up onto the seat next to him. She hardly seemed long-legged enough to do it but somehow she managed. He supposed it helped that she wasn’t actually a dog at all but rather Creirwy, the daughter of the goddess Cerridwyn.
“So, Beauty,” he went on, using the English name Winnie had offered in place of the Welsh one he couldn’t pronounce. “What brings you Trafalgar Square on this soggy spring day?”
She yipped once and belly crawled along the bench until she could lay her head on his thigh. She sighed mournfully.
“What’s wrong?” His brows drew together in a concerned frown.
Beauty whined pathetically and pawed at his leg. Something was definitely up.
“Is Winnie all right?”
Her whining increased, her big doggy eyes turned up towards him imploringly.
“God, I feel like an episode of Lassie. ‘Has Timmy fallen down the well?’”
Beauty whined louder and pawed harder, leaving dirty smears on the leg of his trousers. She barked once in obvious irritation.
“Sorry, sorry. Obviously this isn’t funny. Something’s wrong with Winnie, yeah?”
A bark and what he could only think of as a nod.
“And you think I can help her?” He found the idea dubious at best. She was a goddess, after all; he was just a mortal, and a relatively ordinary one at that.
Another bark. Another nod.
“Are you sure—and you know I hate to admit this— Are you sure you don’t want Sherlock?”
The dog’s frown was as eloquent as a growl, but she added one of those anyway.
He held up a placating hand. “All right. Fair enough.” To his surprise, Beauty sat up and took his hand gently in her mouth and tugged. “We’re going, are we? Okay.”
She let go and he stood up. “Where to?”
Scrambling down more awkwardly than she’d leapt up, Beauty found the pavement and took the lead.
John shivered in his wet clothes. “I don’t suppose we could stop at Baker Street so I can change into something dry?” he asked as he hurried after her.
She glanced back at him, barked once, and trotted on.
“Thought not.”
But by the time they reached the intersection, John realised he was dry. From his hair right through to his boots. Dry. He looked down at the corgi. “That you, was it? Thanks.” She’d probably done it more for expediency than for the sake of his personal comfort, but he still appreciated it. “Right. Let’s go help your mum.”
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