Waterhouse could not have captured such a repose as this, mythic as it may be. As it seems to be. A Welsh mountain resting easily on the sterile bed of a private airliner, the rise and fall of his breathing natural. Natural. No spell to make it so. Stretched out there, as if he were comfortably napping in a field of violets and primroses and broom. He could be captured in this moment, unaware of the story that is unfolding around him. For this moment, a pure look at a man at the juncture of change.
     William pats Davydd's back, as surely as if he were awake to feel it, perhaps he is aware of it. If so, let it convey both love and apology. I love you. I am sorry. The pat that becomes the rub on a shoulder and finally a touch upon the head that is very like a priest's benediction. There are moments of emotion upon his face, of compassion, of great love and admiration. But mostly there is the placid, knowing expression of a king, doing what he needs to do for those in his care.
     Even if means executing his own brother...
     But this is not about death. It is about the continuance of a life. Davydd's. Ian's. Edward's. His. And the life of a political structure. Of that he is convinced and his countenance bears his conviction quietly, confidently.
     My brother, he thinks as he tilts his head to look at Davydd's (mostly) peaceful face, if you can hear me, hold it in your heart that I do what I do for you more even than all others involved. You would do no less were it me there instead of you. Had I betrayed your kingdom, instead of you betraying mine. You would have done the same. That is all I ask, brawd. That is all I will ever ask of you.
     With a breath, William looks up from the yet sleeping form of his brother and friend to find the other one in the room perhaps needing of his touch. His confidence. It is there for his husband, the look, the compassion, the confidence, the strength.

     Ian stands against the wall shared by the other pair next door. His arms cradle himself, crossing his body to cling at opposing shoulders. When you're done, his gaze meets your own.
     "We don't have a lot of time," Ian says in his native tongue. Old and uninterpretable save by a few. "Funny," Ian's brow tightens, "...all we have is Time." He looks at the floor, hands clasping.
     "I don't mind doing this," Ian goes on, crossed arms causing his voice to deepen. "I am alright with it now," he talking to himself as much as you. "Nilsson is set." Politics handled at least to cover one's ass. "There's nothing else, huh?"

     It is funny. I believe that is what they call irony. Indigo rests on you. He nods to see you have girded and are ready. He understands, he thinks, what he has asked. Now, all there is ... is the doing. What is that quote? The deed is all...
     William nods too at the notion of Nilsson. "There is nothing else," he concurs. "All seems ready. It should be as if it had always been thus." That is the crux upon which this whole thing spins, though... should it get out, there is a solution for that as well. And he will take that upon himself. It will be... his doing. He will take accountability. Not you. And there was no budging on that.
     "The sedative should be weakening. It ... likely will not have much, if any, impact on you. Your blood is stronger," fortitude, "...than the trees that gird Ben Nevis." William looks from you to Davydd. Brother of brothers.
     "We should do it now... before the sedative wears, before we land. He will be easier to control when it is done..."

     Ian nods solemnly, keeping himself flush against the wall. He looks to you, extending his hand. "First, us?" Ian asks, smile softly returning to his features. "For a little bit?"

     There is a smile, and for a moment business withdraws. Though he can smile politically with the best of the Florentine court, what you get is simply William. He rises from the bed, Davydd in no danger of causing trouble to anyone anytime soon, his vigil for the moment done.
     Your husband joins you at the wall. On the other side of the wall, the room has gone quiet. William is there, his hand finding your side, his mouth brushing against your forehead, a Gaelic endearment murmured there. For you. Only. His hand then finds your own, you feel the cool-warm presence of the ring that makes him yours.

     "It's funny, isn't it?" Ian whispers, fingers opening and closing. "Time." He's never really spent much energy thinking about it. Now, time's everything, right now. So little. Hurry up and wait. Time to spend, but a short window to make it all happen.
     "It's quiet," Ian whispers, a kiss placed at your throat. Having you so close comforts and excites simultaneously.

     "It only matters when something needs to be done," there is a glimmer of humor in those dark eyes. "We tell it to tick," William murmurs, "and then we wonder why it is that it passes by. I suppose that may have been one of the reasons Einstein labeled it relative. It never moves the same way twice."
     There is a breath for the kiss at his throat. He turns his head, bowing it a little, turning it to place a kiss upon your ear, the returning nuzzle of a smoothened cheek undarkened by a beard. His hand grasps yours firmly. "Hmm... it is quiet." Apart from the jet engines. "Maybe they are sleeping." William tilts his head a little, opening without thought to you. To whatever you wish of him.
     "I love you..."

     "Maybe they are," Ian observes, stilling as he extends his sense. Oops. Maybe that's even true. He smiles though, returning to the present. "I love you too, Prince William," Ian grins, the title true, but somehow always a gentle tease. "Since the night we met." When you were born, perhaps.
     Ian looks over your shoulder to the man lying on the bed. "Maybe he should not have to hear us," he wonders, fingers joining in the grasp. "Though, we are good at keeping quiet..."

     There is not a glance for Davydd just now. That indigo is given only to you. He smiles a little. His mouth brushes against yours and there he mouths: He will not hear us. Nor they. Those who sleep, is it sleep? In the next room. He could be a true voyeur if he wished (and part of him always wishes) but he does not.
     Instead, his mouth pulls at yours, a kiss that is filled with much. Everything. Then and Now. I am here. I will always be here. I am yours.
     I have my place with you...
     Husband...
     There is nothing that can change that...
     Not when your blood fills Davydd and makes him your next childe. For ... is not your blood my blood also? Is my blood not yours?
     William parts from the kiss, that mouth (lord, that mouth) blushed with it. Blood at the surface, ripe there. Were the canines visible he would be both the serpent and the fruit...

     Ian smiles at the mouth near his own, and his lips thicken from the growing canines behind them. He nods, as if hearing the thoughts and believing them true. Our blood is the same now. And Davydd shall eventually know the union between us. He'll know the truth of us. Our families, our sires, our line that has rejoined and continued in the marriage of two sons.
     Ian closes his eyes and straightens against the wall for another kiss. His hands slips from your own, and instead seeks the clasps of your trousers and his own.

     William closes his eyes. There is a breath at your mouth, only a glance down as he feels your hands at his trousers. There is no move to stop you. His mouth parts at your own, vipers and canines making themselves known. This life. This Unlife. There is an energy to the kiss. Perhaps it is a kind of magic, the oldest kind...
     That of Transformation...
     Life to Death to Resurrection...
     Night to Day to Night...
     Spring...to summer...to fall...to winter...
     He breathes your name into the kiss, it is the only sound he makes (he is careful), and his hands rest at your hips as words form at your lips. Occitan: Me tant enamoratz. I have fallen so much in love...
     His hands leave your hips to join yours in between, rings glancing against magic-warmed skin...

     His grin pulls amused. Both enamored and enchanted. The only break in the quiet, other than his name, is the rustle of clothing beneath gathered linen panels. His and yours. After a moment, Ian's gaze lifts to meet your own and he squirms about, turning to face the wall.
     He's learned the value of silence in his centuries. Sometimes, silence has been all that he's had. But this evening, silence fills the space as much as words. One of his hands rests against the wall, the other reaches behind to find yours.

     There is the tinge of copper in the air, of a man biting his tongue not to groan. But you and he have known such centuries, when everything had to be done in quiet, in subterfuge. Especially love. Especially this.
     I loved you once in silence...
     There is a song about that...among other things. Loving in silence. Keeping it to oneself. Or at the very least keeping it hidden. He understands it now. Now, he is not so concerned with throwing back the door and boldly proclaiming it. Now, he wants no one else involved, no one else to know. Something you and he know and share in and that is enough.
     You feel his hands. One gripping your hip, the other finding you there past your clothing, the linen slipping past your hips and then downward, dropping. We do not have time, and yet... we always seem to find time for this. William smiles, fingers slipping against you, teasing within you, and then replaced by the warmth of his tongue.

     Ian gasps, open-mouthed, as to stifle any other sudden comments. He had not expected that, and slowly returns to the floor. Pushing backwards, the crown of Ian's head touches the wall as he moves gently at the tongue behind him, and his hand, once flat against the wood, curls slightly.
     It's strange, how once you figure out your path, things seem so clear and calm? Ian does not wonder whether this is how it should have always been. Or whether Davydd will think more or less of him. All he sees now is a family, strange to outsiders, of men bound in a tradition of blood. He cannot make sense of the why of such. But it will be so, and understanding that, he smiles and looks behind to the one who has made it all seem right somehow.

     The things that make sense. The way that Time and the world works. It is strange. That he should have come full circle of realization this night, as things turn back to a beginning, to an embrace. That he should walk in centennial steps, millennial steps and be with those first loves all over again, and in such a way as this.
     A brother (now twice so)...
     A husband...
     It is strange, how you plan your path and you walk it, and it is the Unexpected that makes it make sense somehow. That the three of you (the universe always favored triads) should be bound in blood, a family.
     A family...
     His family...
     When he sat upon that fallen oak in the middle of a Welsh wood, hammering out peace in terms of mud and blood and weariness, this was not at all the future he saw. But here they are again...
     William's mouth makes its only sound in you, the rush of a breath that you feel, and then his fingers again, and then his tongue in alternating thrusts to open you, to excite you, to prepare you for what will be coming. Indigo rarely leaves you. When he lifts his head, and you look back, you find his gaze, smoldering blue-violet -- like the nightsky catching fire.
     In glimpses, you can see him. When he lifts his mouth from you, his fingers filling the space of you instead, you can see him risen there, his free hand stroking. But of sound, there is only the occasional rustling of linen to cover the softer sounds of his fingers smoothing against your skin, claiming you, filling you.

     At the wall, Ian crushes a sudden sound that threatened to escape his lips. His brows arch, softening the tension. He twists to see behind him - once something dreaded - to visualize what he knows and feels.
     How different this is than the chastity next door. A knight still discovering his way in the world, and his way with another. In this space, a knight fulfills a destiny in the same search, with knowledge and understanding. Immediately, the room begins to fill with a familiar scent, and Ian's brows knit with the realization that it comes from him, trailing down his chin.

     There is much different in this room than in its neighbor. There, two bodies may rest, the one alongside the other. It is a kind of chastity perhaps. Here, the only one who may rest is the one who has been forced to. And that rest shall not last for long...
     For you, for William, there is no resting. There is likewise no embarrassment for the thin walls, for the man unconscious on the bed. For is this not a part of the ritual? We find our meaning in one another, we reaffirm our vows not in speaking but in this. You feel me there... now... and when we are joined it is in the capital. Joined.
     You feel him there, the pressure of him between the rounds of your rear, the hand that filled you taking hold of your hip and leading you back to him. Leading you to him, as you once led him to you. To the promise and to the fulfillment. To the vow. To the marriage.
     The union is recreated...
     William guides himself to you, within you, just an inch and out. Another... out. Quickly, just the pistoning head, then out. You may think that will be it, you know better, when he comes again, he sinks three inches. And then the same, just the quick thrusts of the crown and upper length, then he pulls out of you altogether, only to return... six inches...
     And he pulls out again...

     Ahead, Ian's gaze stares into the next room, as if he could see them there, daring them to know what is happening a scant few feet away. He wonders if, only for an instant, if they can understand the pair next door, what being as this means to them, and to the line that has come before them.
     He can't help it. Even as he thinks to be quiet, Ian instead is audible, moaning against the wall helplessly.
     That'll get attention next door, perhaps.
     Sharply he inhales, trying to squelch the instinctive noises his body wishes to make. Over his shoulder, he looks again, his face brightly ruddied as his blood - and you - burn within him.

     You look back and there he is, bright warrior, loving lord, his eyes firmly fixed to the evidence of where you are joined, his other hand joining his former on your hips, and the quick thrusts of him just within you have become quick thrusts of him thick within you. He finds himself there, he understands himself there, he becomes himself there...
     As there are pieces of you that only he has perhaps seen, this act, this feeling, unlocking some hidden meaning, so too there are pieces of him that only you know, that only this act can reveal to you. Pieces of himself that he may not even be aware of, as self-aware as he prides himself on being. That look upon that iconic face as he tips it back, Olympian beauty with a body suited to such heights, revealed more in how his remaining clothes hang on him and sway or part in his motion.
     The grasp of strength at your hips, holding you to this, to him. A knight of the Court of Love, a duke of the Court of Love, a king of the Court of Love -- here in you and only in you can he be crowned. The Emperor card or the King of Hearts, in his reds and whites and blacks.
     You can see it there, etched like words on his skin, as if tattooed there. His pleasure. His open adoration. His need. His love. His loyalty. His passion. His excitement.
     And you embody everything, every piece of him at its best you bring out of him. He is only complete with you here to complete him...
     William's mouth parts but lets out no sound. At your moan, his attention lifts from your rear and its motion and his motion within you to you, to the wall (will the sound of a shoe hitting it be next?), and then back to your body. There is my house, there is all my joy, there is all that I am, there is the best of me, there it is... country and crown. His mouth is bloodied (red) against his skin (white compared to others), his short dark hair (black) going inky with the sudden rise of sweat.

     He wants to call your name, to ask more of you. Such remain unvoiced, though evident in the strain upon his youthful features, the parting of his legs, and the dip of his head and shoulders. The scots oak panelling he used to brace himself becomes the immovable object against an unstoppable force. His curves lift and turn, though covered in tailored cloth.
     One hand releases the safety of the wood. Ian pants and writhes beneath his beloved's expert hands, struggling to remove the coat. Left side wriggles, then right, yet the coat is far more stubborn than the trousers that, when pushed, easily fall to Ian's feet.

     You do not have to ask him with your voice...
     Ah, you know this...
     How many times now have you thought of him in such a way, a glass in hand, sitting, waiting for you only to enter your room and find him thus? All you need to express is voiced by your motion, your skin, your blush, your position...
     Could they hear the moan? Maybe slumber saved them from it? Can they hear the unmistakable sound of skin against skin, not sliding but hitting. Percussion. Do they wonder about turbulence? Do they wonder about the health of the engines? Can they, in fact, hear it above the engines...
     William breathes at your ear, he gives it all to you, the warmth of his breath, warmed by magics, the quickness and the power of it. The whispered words that it carries. I am yours. I will always be yours. Yours and no others. And you, for me. There is no other. Where you are, I shall always be...
     The next words are, it seems, for God. God, yes...
     What distance there was is then quickly closed, he is flush against you, every motion held deep within quickens. He knows he doesn't have much time. He knows he cannot keep you, fill you, fuck you as long as he would wish.
     Plantagenet hands brace against you again as he leans back, lengthening the thrusts. Pulling, until he is nearly withdrawn, sinking deeply again and breathing against your ear...
     Slow...
     Complete...
     His breath hisses from him in a gasp and you can feel him start to tremble...

     Ian's head twists back again, he dressed only in his shirt. It crinkles and billows against him, too translucent to hide his body beneath it. Hearing his beloved so near only encourages Ian to move faster, to roll as a torrent instead of a gentle wave. It starts where the two of you join, spreads as a ripple to his reddening cheeks, and climbs along his back in blood-red ribbons, left and right, to his shoulders. 'Hold on' his gaze seems to say, Ian breathing shallowly as he looks back to you. But he knows that it may be too late.
     The room's air stirs when Ian suddenly stands, careful not to lose you with his sudden movements. His hand reaches back to you as he rises, his fangs distended and already bloodied. Grey eyes gleam, and Ian whispers as he reaches firstly, for you...
     "I belong to you and no other. I am here for you...and no other..."

     On his feet, the change in position, the sudden change of altitude stills him. Where you go he can't help but follow, and where his body had tightened, he remains tight. Where you have been joined, you remain joined...
     William is there as you reach for him, his beautiful countenance washed over with pleasure felt and wished, with hunger felt, answered firstly by his ensconcing within you. He moves within you again, pulling you to him tightly and his mouth finds yours. "Boste son," the Occitan comes again. I am yours. "Qu'ie'us am mais que neguna re..." I love you above all others. "Boste son," he breathes, canines distended, revealed in the pulling of his mouth. "Boste son..."

     Ian's hand reaches behind, gently separating you from him. A stillness surrounds him, causing a slight euphoria. Those eyes you know so well seem to look through you. A curious stare in the tilt of his head, and then a smile. Fingers unbutton the last vestige of the moment, and over his boyish shoulders, the shirt slips away, floating to the floor with the rest of his clothing.
     Languidly, Ian's eyes blink once, and he moves around you, his passing hand twining into your own. He steps towards the bed, and slides his gaze to the man lying upon it. Fingers pull you beside him flush, he a statue of a demigod, grey gaze transfixed at the world at his feet.

     You are afforded what may be your first, long look at Davydd ap Owain, called Llywelyn...
     Davydd lies still, he lies easily, he lies heavily, though the heaviest part of the sedation is past. Had he not been so drunk beforehand, he may have already been awake. But as such, he remains sleeping. Red hair like the waves of flame in an otherwise dim room. Not overly long, not overly short, just long enough to allow for artful disarray. A chain that held a key lies against his neck, no talisman to hold now. His clothing is dark, offsetting the strawberry-whiteness of his own skin. A red-head's complexion.
     His features are Old Welsh, at once rugged and fine. High, exacting cheekbones, high as the cliffs of Gwynedd. The small, Brythonic nose ridged with some amount of freckling for a man who spent a good deal of time outdoors. His mouth, for all its volume, is rather smallish, but full. And there is the remnant of a scar on his chin, a memory of a gift of your husband's gauntlet long ago.
     He is beautiful, despite smelling like Guinness and cigarettes. His great shoulders, broad chest, large arms taper into the trim waist of a well-studied archer. Not the height of William, no. But your height. Just broader...

     The euphoria stills William yet again, and as you pull off of him and as you turn to look at him, through him and past him, he swallows. His body still desiring motion, completion, so close at hand. His olive complexion has darkened where it is visible. You touch him and the euphoric feeling washes through him again.
     Your name is whispered against the air like the name of a god wandering by as you pull him to you, flush against you as you move toward the bed and the one lying upon it.
     William sees Davydd, but he does not see him. He is there, and yet he is not. His free hand cannot help itself. It moves to his length to comfort the ache there. He moves in a sexual daze, much like a magical fog. His motions slow, distracted.

     With you beside him, there is nothing he cannot do. Such you have taught him...
     ...heir of Scotland...
     ...scion of Epona, son of Freja...
     ...cousin of Normandy...
     Ian's brow wrinkles when he looks from Davydd to you, eyeing the clothing you still wear. A distraction, it is, unnecessary in this ritual. With deliberate motions, Ian turns to face you and begins to remove the trappings of Italy.

     Great shoulders roll, the jacket falling easily away, the pants, he steps out of them, and each piece falls away like so many years. Time. There was so much of it. Then there was so little of it. Now, it has disappeared altogether. Italian fabrics falling away.
     Italy has no place in this. Nor can it, nor should it be a witness...
     Indigo is dark and bright, focusing upon your face, and then he turns to look at Davydd, this time seeing him. Seeing this. Seeing what must be done. And seeing that, yes, his place is there. He is a part of the ritual. William bends, he murmurs his love upon your mouth, love that needs no words, and then he looks to the bed, to his brother of brothers, his mouth parting, tongue sliding against the additional incisors...

     It comes like lightening, released by the grey of his eyes.
     You turn to see Davydd, and Ian embraces you to himself, sinking his teeth deeply at the throat so left open for him...

     It comes like lightning, and his voice sounds for the first time in natural, not hushed tones, perhaps even loudly. William clutches you to him, and anchors himself with you, strong hand balling against you.
     It is immediate tension and immediate melting away...
     It is instant climax, and it is forever orgasm on the edge of itself...
     It is all time and all love that has ever been...
     William's blood fills your mouth, the smoky flavor of blood from the rays of the sun, sweat, seed, the memories of covering you, including the most recent memories there against the paneled wall, of a thousand such memories. Copulations and conquests and campaigns...
     Brandy and the Vienne...
     Sweet Loire grass...
     The dark oak woods of Wales, brilliant green in the forest's dampness. A young comte moving through an ancient grove...

     Ian drinks deeply, his mouth sealed over the font that is you. Without warning, and as quickly as he took you, Ian's hold relaxes, his mouth filled with the life and love that has sustained him for a thousand years.
     Davydd is once more considered. Ian's fingers find yours, and he sinks slowly to the bed, brushing Davydd's hair aside with his free hand. A last swallow clears his mouth, and Ian looks back and up to you one last time.

     William follows you by virtue of the hand yet clasped, the fingers yet joined. Yet, and always. The scent of his blood thuds against the air of the small cabin. Potent. The oiled perfume of emperors, the drink and the blood of kings, rich, fragrant...
      ...The bed is full...
     You move upon it, sinking beside the red-haired Celtic mountain, and behind you comes the Loire, Aelinor's own, smelling of the resin of joined love and ancient blood...
     The bed is full...
     William rests upon it, his hand still in yours. As you look to him, he lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing the center of your palm...

     And all the while, the Cymri doesn't move...
     His hair moves as you touch it, thick and wavy, fiery copper-bronze. His skin is warm like the Living. A king in repose, sleeping under a spell. Waiting to be awakened...
      ...waiting...
     There are heartbeats there...
     Slow...
     Steady...
     ...Ah... what has happened... my mind is a fog... dark, feeling around in the darkness with my hands, hands I cannot see. The wood so deep...
     So deep...

     Shh...we are with you. We have been, and we shall continue to be so. Look! A light, brother.
     The bed remains still as Ian's face disappears behind a wave of red-copper hair. The only marker that he drinks of the sleeping one, is the shocking clasp of his hand around his beloved's...

     Sweet... the Blood of Britain...
     Apples from Avalon, there! The orchards stretching like a blooming forest upon the ancient hills, the valleys carved from the hooves of Epona's herd, white chalk beneath the green, green earth. They run there, white horses with legs of light...
     The river of his blood is the river of rivers, crystalline clear, within it the salmon of Gwydion... Wisdom and Inspiration. Ah, will you now be Taliesin, the poet with the golden brow...?
     The fire in the head...
     The strength of Oak, a forest suddenly illuminated. The timelessness of Alder. The protection of Rowan. The restoration of life...Heather. The whispers of the wood, of the earth, of the stone, of the water... Willow. The copulating tangle of Mistletoe. The relentlessness of Holly...
     The power of the cauldron of rebirth...
      The holy grail...
     It is at your lips, past them, filling you with the spirit of the land itself. The king is the land... the land is the king...
     Within it, too, pictures of an Age...
     A Celtic King in a 12th Century wood... an archer, commanding the very trees. To vanquish the enemy...
     The enemy that became your husband and his brother...

     William grasps your hand, the hold is secure. I am here. I am here...

     The wood smells of oak...
     It smells of moss...
     It smells of blood...
     In my nose...
     Wake up, Davydd... wake up, Davydd... this is no time to sleep, boyo...
     No time...
     No time...
     But you are right... brother... you are right...there is a light...
     It lights the wood, moving against the river there. The river is dark but ... I see the illumination upon it, like floating flames, floating candles on the river...
     Did Fiona light those candles for me...

     Much Ian has learned from the Tremere, but nothing compares to this.
     The hand in yours, dear William, is imbued with a softness only known to mortals. His fingers twitch slightly, and the skin dampens at your touch.

     "No, I did," the young man says, appearing before you. He's nude, save for a white gown that is all but transparent. White hair streams around his face and ears, which, for an instant, seemed slightly angular.
     "At least I think I did," he smiles, looking around the forest. "For you," he insists, returning to your gaze, Davydd.
     Stepping forward, he looks left and right, rather delighted by the candles. And when he turns about to see more of them, beneath the transparent gown, trailing along his spine, is a twine of dark green leaves from the gentle rise of his rear to the middle of his sweetly arched back. There, the vines split, one branch heading right and one left, both disappearing beneath his perfect skin.
     Turning about, he faces you, indeed sure of his delight. Apparently, he did create the setting.
     "I've come for you," he smiles, "...to make sure everything is well, Your Majesty."

     "Gwydion..."
     Davydd says it before he thinks it, a hand pushing low-hanging leaves out of his way. He looks to his hand resting on the trunk of an oak tree, knotty and ancient. The roots of these trees are both above and beneath the ground, and the silver river runs swiftly, carrying the little boats of candles, an armada bearing flames, lighting the way...
     He is on his knees before the apparition of what seems to be the Goddess' own son. The poet and magician who served as her kitchen boy.... yes... her kitchen boy. He was stirring her potion when it popped, boiling, onto his fingers. Gwydion stuck them in his mouth to soothe his skin and blessed with her wisdom and enlightenment. Angered, Cerridwen chased him. He became a rabbit, a bird, finally a piece of grain in a pile. She became a pure white hen and ate the grain. When she became a woman again, Gwydion was in her belly. She gave birth to him nine months later and he was called Taliesin.
     Dragons swirl at his wrists, the only visible part of his skin, living, breathing in royal and cobalt blue. Davydd glances to his wood, the grove of Oak, of the nine trees of his nine powers combined. He looks to you, he can scarcely look away from you. "You come... just as I needed your help." In the river, the salmon shine silver in the current. The fish of Gwydion, his symbols, like the hazel. Ah, the hazel of enlightenment, inspiration, wisdom.
     "I seem to have lost my way in my own forest." Forest green eyes sparkle. "This bodes ill for an oak king..."

     William yet holds his lover's hand, his eyes going also to his brother of brothers, watching that strawberry-milky complexion go pale with the loss of blood. Blood that warms Ian's skin. Warms it with pliant, living warmth. He lightly covers his husband's hand with his other.

     There's so much blood, William, so much. It fills my nose, my mouth, my stomach...my senses. It wants to separate me from you. To consume me. To blind me to everything but it. To blind me from you...

     The young man's pale brows arch and he looks a little surprised. Well, only for a moment. Then he smiles again, radiant as the flickers of light that stream from the salmon. "Well, a little, perhaps," he says softly. "In truth, I do not know for sure. I am just here to help you, if I can, Your Majesty."
     The young man approaches closer, revealing his perfection. When he smiles, the very atoms around him heat. "You know, many lose their way, if that is what has happened to you. And then they find it once more. Maybe it is good that a king is like so many others."

     Davydd rises, the smile on his face warm. He is beautiful in his own right, but it's an earthy beauty. No godlike radiance. His skin is this forest. His heart and his blood, this river. The salmon, his laughter. The raven, his dreams. The knotted oak roots are the sinews of his strong form.
     He stares at you, he regards you. Fiery eyebrows arch, the trajectory of comets that marked the hour of his birth and he smiles, though his eyes are serious. "Oes," he nods, "I think it is. Otherwise... the king would ... be the most solitary soul in all the world." Davydd stares at Gwydion again. "I've walked this wood a long time on my own. Maybe... there is only so much you can do with only one set of eyes, one set of experience. A solitary king... does the world no good. No more than one salmon in a stream..."
     Modern clothes seem, perhaps strangely, not out of place in such a Place as this. Hands slide into his coat's pocket. "We'll ... walk together then," Davydd offers, careful when he steps up to the radiant soul. "That way, I can avoid looking like Pellinore," the king who wandered away from his world, unable to find it again, stumbling lastly upon Camelot as a king of no land...

     William bends, his mouth to his husband's hand. He says nothing, but his mind, his will, his soul expresses itself, his love. His presence...
     Do not close your eyes and you will not be blind. Do not forget why you are here, why we do this. Remember Us, mon mari...

     "Alright then," the young man says, feet treading lightly upon the ground. He walks along the stream, and the salmon turn to gaze at him. "I should not want you to be alone." He seems to understand isolation.
     The beauty strides along in silence, the transparent gown shielding nothing. Each step, filled with grace, is taken serenely. Moonlight and darkness bother him not.
     "Where do we walk, Your Majesty?" the young man asks softly. He is no leader in this, but your companion, faithful and divine. "I do like this forest," he smiles, "...are you certain it is yours?"

     Davydd flashes a grin, that's trademark, that -- a comet streak that lights the features of his face as he moves slowly among the river's twisting path among further twisting oak. He notices the male beauty beside him, as much as one might notice any beauty. But respect covers the appreciation.
     "No, it isn't mine," Davydd replies softly. "I belong to it... that is the way of it. That is how it is supposed to be. I guess, that is why I am here... now. I was in a city before... but... it calls me. The trees speak, I listen. I suppose then, I could never really be solitary. But for your companionship, Gwydion, I'm most glad..."
     The wood is dark, thick, tangled. Above, in the canopy, leafy crowns are thick with mistletoe. Dew, fragrant, heady, drips downward, and flowers sprout wherever the moisture falls.
     "I think we walk to the west," the king says, looking to the youth again. He smiles. "To the setting sun. When the sun sets, I may wake. But not before. I am sleeping now. We are walking to waking..."

     "I hope so," the young man offers, smiling brightly too. In the dimness he is brilliant, and the stars of the Milky Way begin to dance in the setting sky. At his cheeks, glistening tears crystallize, falling to the ground harmlessly as shining stone. "So we walk to the West," he nods, seeing it now. "I wish then, Your Majesty, that you rest sweetly," the sentiment honest. "I will look for you again in the western horizon. And we will walk again once more in your forest."
     At the young man's shoulders and back, the leaves continue to twine. Ivy at his left, and holly at his right, dotted red with the tiniest of color. He glances to the river beside him, glinting ice crackling along its edges. This bothers the salmon not, and they keep in their glimmering paces in the water.

     The fingers at your hand, William, begin to slacken. Blood that disappeared into Ian's mouth now trickles between the two, spilling upon the bed. Between yours and your brother's, he has had his fill, and color that once belonged to Davydd now fully flushes Ian's skin.

     Why do you cry, Gwydion... or must you cry so the world can See...
     Ivy and Holly at your back, living there, living everywhere. And the oak wood begins to dissolve into a holly wood, mistletoe still clinging to the tops of trees. Berries red and white, mistletoe and holly. The ground is red as blood beneath his feet, littered also with the shining stones of Gwydion's tears.
     Davydd pauses. He looks around. The holly trees are tall, not as wide, not as knotty, clumps of taloned leaves, evergreen. Ever green despite the crackling frost, the evidence of winter. Winter. Here. His breath leaves him in frozen mist. He looks around himself. To the river that still flows and the salmon that swim beneath a layer of ice.
     He can feel it... the world changing...
     The seasons changing...
     Davydd looks at his hands. The holly briars and thorns on his left wrist extend all the way up his arm, twining unseen beneath where the cloth hides him, his large bicep where the oak once stood stalwart and alone.
     He exhales and his breath hangs...
     There is not a second breath...

     Blood spills against Davydd's death-pale skin, the ghost of a king, he appears. Red upon white. Mistletoe and Holly. His chest no longer rises or falls. It rose once, a breath. Fell once, a cool exhalation. And then it stopped.
     The heartbeat that sounds is Ian's own, echoing with Davydd's last...

     William bends, mouth to Ian's hand again, and then he lets his husband's hand go. A heartbeat. A heartbeat. A heartbeat. It is time, my love. Bring him home...

     It is enough.
     Blood pours from Ian's lips as he slackens near Davydd. His body becomes heavy, and in its weight, begins to slide from the bed to the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind.

     "Ian..."
     It is William's voice that sounds. Firm. Immediate...
     "Ian..."
     Plantagenet is on the move, hands bracing his mate as he begins to slide to the floor, holding him onto the bed, lifting him back. A hand to his face, gently. "Ian..."
     Ian....
     ...it's not done... you're not done... wake up...
     Ian... we don't have time...

     In the grove of Oak and Summer...
     Around the fields and orchards of Avalon...
     The leaves of oak go from green to red to gold in mere moments, littering the ground in mere moments more...
     Rivers swollen with spring rain begin to course more slowly, becoming streams, then brooks. Salmon spawn, swimming upstream, leaping to the higher waters...
     Flowers turn to toadstools, mushrooms springing up in mossy, damp earth...

     Ian gasps, a deep, damp breath. It scurries through him, causing him to cough blood from overfilled passages.
     Grey eyes, gentler now, open and see a familiar face. Something is happening. Something to do...
     Unaccustomed to his body's living self, Ian awkwardly rolls in the embrace, turning towards Davydd again. He's tired, Ian is, and struggles to keep himself awake. But he turns himself over, and with a trembling hand, he slashes at his wrist, offering it to Davydd's lips.

     "I am not sad, Your Majesty," the voice says as the young man looks at the darkened horizon. He looks at the stars in the sky and the stars that have formed a trail beneath his feet. "I do like your forest," he reminds, "...my heart hopes that you do too..."

     Blood moved over his mouth, and into his mouth...
     Magic taken is returned...
     However altered, it is returned...
     Ian's wrist to his mouth is like the chalice of the Goddess. The cauldron of rebirth...
     In it, Life...
     In it, Resurrection...
     In it, Forever...
     The still form beneath him swallows without swallowing, absorbs without waking...

     ...Where once there were oak trees, holly trees sprout suddenly upon the earth both wide and tall. Branches spring with taloned, evergreen leaves, and the forms of living dragons surround the roots and trunks, etched even into the skin of the trees. Same as he. Around the kingdom of the Holly King, trees of Thorn rise to become a great wall, and briars and brambles, ferns and rowan trees spring upwards from the earth. Great stands of yew rise. And hawthorne and blackthorn blooming. And with them stands of Gwydion's hazel trees, lining the silver flowing river, whose waters once again begin to swell, swell with the autumn's moisture...
     And the world is ripe with the richness of the harvest...
     Unimaginable bounty hangs on every bough, vines lush and dark in turn weighted by purple grapes. Apples. Pears. Quince...
     And a great hunger rises within him...
     "I am not sad either, Gwydion," he whispers. Davydd looks to Gwydion. Marveling at the altered wood, he turns around, a circuit opposite to the wheel of the sun and then he looks to the ground. To the red berries that color it scarlet. "But I am ...so thirsty, Gwydion... so hungry," he whispers. With the land altering all around him, Davydd falls to his knees. Hands to the earth, grasping, he scoops the berries into his fingers, his palm. He feeds on them like a starving man.
     And he gasps at their power, going to his hands and his knees. Ecstatic, Davydd rolls onto his back, his mouth red with the berries ingested. Upon his red hair then sits a crown of holly and ivy, the taloned leaves deepest green. Dragons upon the earth move around him, and then against his skin...

     William...my William...keep me with you...I am not ready to go yet...
     Between you, the white-blonde youth folds upon himself, unspeaking and unmoving. His heart beats steadily, though he remains unresponsive. Ian eyes are closed, and the bedding begins to slide with him as he sinks towards the floor.

     The young man turns back to see his companion, ingesting the fruit of the land. He smiles as his feet turn him about to his friend again, and he shimmers into grey-white light, effervescent, before he is seen no more.

     Stars at your feet, angel... and yet I ask you to remain with me a while...
     You are not going so far, for there is a hand at your back, the omnipresence of his Strength. It fills the small cabin, even beyond the scent of blood.
     He is everywhere...
     He is everything...
     With a glance to the Cymri, William lowers with the white-blonde youth, a large hand slipping beneath the young man's head, gently guiding him. His mouth parts at his lover's own, warmly covering and leaving behind a scarlet drop of the emperor's blood...
     Sun and moon at his back, the crimson crest-comb on a burnished bronze helm, a cloak, thick and trailing, the color of the solitary drop. This... all this... in a flash in the falling of the liquid, in the pulling of his mouth, and then in the parting the vision falls away...
     There is not much time...
     William sits up, knees bracing him. He can feel the plane shifting, altitude is beginning its gradual decrease...
     Twenty-five minutes to landing...
     William turns his attention to his brother, his friend, his brother. How still Davydd lies, his lips stained with Ian's and his own blood. Moment by moment coloring returns. Whiter than before, but with some persistence of complexion, a flush on his neck, his high-borne cheeks...
     Indigo turns to his mate, his lover, his husband. The youth, white-blonde, the last son of Norse and Celtic gods. Beautiful. The world does not know how much, for they have never seen him thus. So beautiful, the heart should break at the slightest notion of his absence.
     William inclines his head. He rises and he takes up his clothing...

It's that time of year once more and again
When the green turns golden brown
And the summer sun shall fade to winter sky
Old Oak King
it's time for you to die
The King and the Corn are born to fall
And all must die in sacrifice
Underneath the Harvest Moon
Hide your pride -- let time decide
Who must live and who must die
Underneath the Harvest Moon
The Reaper comes for the barley and the rye
And all must fall beneath his scythe
Seasons change and we wait for darker days
The Old Oak King is a-sleeping in his grave...

     In the midst of a tangled, thick jungle wood, at the intersection of three streams that flow the one into the other into the river as one, in the sheltering shade of hazel trees and holly, he lies, drunk and dazed beneath the sickle moon that hangs low like a secret smile...
     In the midst of an airliner cabin, at the head of a bed, his body bent in deep repose, Davydd lies, drunk and dazed by the power of the blood ingested. Magic not lost, but redoubled. Slowly, perhaps unnoticed, his chest begins to rise and fall. Shallowly, shallowly...

     At the floor, where he has been so gently lain, Ian stirs slightly. The bedding half-over him, his eyes flutter slightly, and a hand curls and stretches, a world being tested. His body, blush with life, is heavy and ruddied, and his skin, supple.
     "Gwilym," Ian whispers, his first words. His tongue instinctively touches the blood you left upon his lips, and he weakly smiles. "Mm," Ian groans, turning upon his side.

     You are a wonder. Living. Breathing. Not merely with the effects of the stolen magics. No, it is something more than this...
     He comes into your line of vision again, a vision himself. Suit jacket back on, and fine shirt, unbuttoned. The linen trousers of a hand-tailored, custom suit bending and giving and pulling around him as William crouches at your side.
     "Do you need more, my love? Are you alright?" The Gaelic trips and lilts from that mouth, such a mouth. "We will be landing soon," William murmurs, hand brushing against the gold of your hair. "You are so beautiful," the words catch in his throat with emotion. He cannot speak how much he loves you. So much. So beautiful.
     A crimson tear, despite the magics, appears upon his pale-olive cheek. An immortal expression before something so ... amazingly living. "I will help you dress," he says. "I will help you..."
     With everything...

     Ian sits up, using a strong Angevin arm for help, and looks around. Then, "What happened?" he asks, startled, recalling the last...how long? He can tell that he is still here, but what of Davydd? And then a stare to you. You are alright.
     "Is he..." Ian begins, peering at the bed. He's on the floor. "I think I am...alright?" he assesses, not sure of what is happening to him. "I feel a little unsettled," Ian admits with a smile. His free hand lands on the edge of the bed, to get him to his feet.

     "He still ...rests," William murmurs, and he rises, his hand held out to you. Is it sleep or is it death? William is better than alright. It is not about beauty, though there is certainly that. There is ...some other quality present that gives him a resplendent edge. Confidence. Command. As if the world were in his palm.
     There is the smile, slight though it is it claims his mouth so easily. Yes, unsettled is a word...and not without reason, my love. He glances to Davydd. The pallor of his transformation still blushed with something else, lingering magics perhaps? The fiery red hair is more burnished with each passing moment. And he is beautiful too. William never really noticed before. It always came with such...bluster...
     Such affection. It is overwhelming...
     Indigo eyes turn back to you, his hand yet offered, his assistance there for you. And the emperor husband looks upon the beloved, taking a moment to mark each and every thing before clothing hides it away. He is crowned not with holly or oak or human gold but with the stars that you trail beneath your steps, son of Freja and Epona. There is something of that as William stares at you. As he smiles at you. As he lifts his hand to brush your cheek.
     And then as he fetches your clothing...

     "It worked?" Ian wonders, standing up. He bobbles, and looks down at his feet.
     "I'm...heavy?"
     Ian exhales, and the weight of it causes him to clutch his chest. He laughs nervously, then looks at you. His expression goes slightly wan, and he says cautiously, "Is...this...living?"
     Overcome, Ian drops to the bed, hand still at his expanding chest. Horror and delight wash across his features as he feels his way through whatever has changed him.

     Davydd does not move, though you lie heavily onto the bed. Heavy, with living. And he lies on his side, half-curled, shallow breaths, so shallow, moving through him. His transformation continues. Unseen, beneath the folds of clothing, leather and cotton, swirling blue dragons and forests of trees are living on his skin. The Holly dragons at his left wrist now cover his entire left arm to his bicep, becoming Ivy at his shoulder...
     ... His skin pales and at his mouth two thorns make themselves known, appearing, curving downward past his incisors. And the face that was rugged, handsome becomes smooth, elven beauty. Unblemished. Plantagenet's scar fading away into history and obscurity.

     William stands at the foot of the bed, he looks to you both. His olive complexion, paled with his own loss of blood, darker than the pair of Celts on the bed. One sleeping. The other mystified. The bed is weighted by the addition of a third, and his hand brushes against the blonde hair of his lover and partner. "It worked," William murmurs in assurance.
     You speak of living and he can see it on you. An effect of faerie magics. "What is it like?" William wonders, head tilting slightly. "Apart from heavy... is it heavy?" Interesting. Tipping back his head he brings his hands to rest upon his thighs. He rises, turning to fetch your trousers from the corner of the bed where he had laid them.

     Ian sits quietly, save his breathing. For a moment, panic sets into his features, causing his breathing to accelerate further. He tries to calm himself, remembering to breathe deeply. Grey eyes watch you move, giving himself something to do. Something distracting.
     "I...wish it would go away," Ian confesses, closing his eyes again. "It's not real..."

     "I am sure it will..." he says. "Do not worry, amours. Such things on the blood, they pass after a time. Think of it as," inclining his head again, William smiles, "...fairy crack..." And then he grins, the devil. "I will pour you a scotch," he thinks to offer. Scotch always makes things better. "First, give me your legs... we should be landing in the next fifteen minutes..."
     And we have to clean up. We have to get ready...
     He glances to Davydd again. His brother of brothers. But there is no sign that he will be waking anytime soon. Perhaps the magic once returned is no less taxing for him.

     Such things....pass after a time. Said so easily. He has not felt this way in a thousand years. The smile is charming and for an instant, disarming, but soon enough Ian must deal with his traitorous body.

Posted by rowan at May 03, 2004 07:34 PM