Birds are singing in the branches overhead, the brilliance of their plumage hidden from sight's easy spy. Splashes of sunlight trundle from one leaf to another, one woody, bent twig to another, making their way almost lazily down to the grass of the aviary.
     "Sunlight here is different from sunlight there," Fiona is explaining - to herself. She's denim-clad, jeans paired with a slightly off the shoulder black t-shirt that's at least two sizes too big for her. Stolen from Rhodri's closet, no doubt. Everyone steals from Rhodri's closet. Her feet are bare, her hair chopped temporarily to its pixie-cut, the fuchsia bob and determined chin in evidence. "I don't know why it is. It just is."
     "Is it mortality? The presence of age alone shouldn't be enough to do it. It's such an imperfect world, and at times, I despair of it. But then, in moments like this, places like this one..." She might never know; a hand lifts, fist clenched, then opens, watching a swirl of coloured lights dance on her palm. "It's easy to forget things. Some things, maybe, sometimes I need to forget ... or remember."
     The trouble with talking to oneself is that other people can listen in. But her parents are in Cardiff for the day. Davydd's asleep. Rhodri's probably taking care of business - but if he's here, it'll hardly be the first time he's walked in on her talking to herself. Looking all of nineteen if that...

     The heralds of disaster always come in twos...
     Twa corbies...
     Two corgies...
     Twin boys...
     And so they come, these harbingers of ruin, trotting fattily and merrily down the steps -- well, they are leaping down the steps to be honest -- making a racket to interrupt your whispered meditation and throwing the birds in a right panic. Canaries tweet, peacocks howl and let loose precious plumage, and the birds of paradise and other assorted fowl hoot and holler at the grinning, mischievous arrival of Bwci and Rhyddid.
     Were it twilight, one could look up and know that Davydd ap Owain would not be far behind, his gravelly voice calling them back -- heel, boys, heel, dammit -- but there is no such sound smack in the middle of the day. Davydd is still soundly resting here while he is soundly ruling Elsewhere. No rest for the wicked.
     But there are steps that follow, not from the stones pathways that lead from castle to each garden plateau, but from the hidden grotto in the aviary that leads to a gated chamber that leads to all imaginable places. The gate creaks and is latched and soft steps issue from the back.
     And a laughter edged whistle. "Shouldn't you two be dead by now?" Iowerth's voice quietly teases them. "Oh that's right," he chuckles as they promptly present their fat bellies to him, "... wicked things like you never die, just like the Devil Himself."
     He's dressed as any mortal boy his age -- or rather the age he would be were years his markers. A grey pinstriped blazer (one of Davydd's that he'd stolen and has now forever altered) adorned with patches on the lapels and captain's bars and stripes on the shoulders covers a t-shirt, standard London issue that -- Black Adder black vintage tee from the first season back in the 1980s -- over a pair of jeans with a greyish, dark wash. His hair is at his shoulder blades these days, waving this way and that way just as his father's does.

     She's climbing to her knees to greet the damned dogs, shaking her head in amusement. "What are we to do with you two? Other than put up with you and cuddle you and feed you bits of rabbit pie. Well - that's what Davydd would say, but then, that's Davy's idea of heaven, isn't it." Bellies are rubbed. Chins are scratched, as the queen of elsewhere bends to have her face licked.
     Gwilym's grin is smug as he follows behind his brother, one hand to the back of his neck. "Did you expect them to give up the ghost? At least our mother's not showing those damned pictures of us being hauled about by these two." When they were but wee boys - all of a month or three ago, by Fiona's time. Eighteen years, by his own.
     He's scorned raiding his father and grandfather's closets. Instead, he's made a daring leap from one set of shadows to another, and quite thoroughly pinched things he hasn't any right to - like a proper spy ought to, as he might say. What he hasn't stolen, he's had made for him, by admiring and cunning fairy maidens' fingers. So it is that he's clad from head to foot in black, winding lines of green streaked through like forests at midnight and like neon at three a.m. in the club district, a lightning storm across a tight t-shirt and snug trousers that could be PVC but aren't, and a jacket of some sort. No seams, no zippers, no buttons - it looks almost like a jumpsuit, so contiguously flowing are the lines of it, right down to the tops of the heavy boots. But those are Doc Martens, black with neon green laces.
     "What," Fiona demands, rising to her feet, hands on her hips, "are you two doing here? Other than trying to give me a heart attack, of course." It's a little hard to reconcile - these motherly urges, with this punk exterior. She puts on a belligerent face, pursing her lips so as not to laugh instead. "How did you come by? Does anyone else know you're here yet?" How much damage control does she need to do? "Come here," she orders, beckoning now with both hands, arms opening wide. "You two - bad as your fathers, I swear..."

     There's a look to his brother and the cock up of an eyebrow (that's inherited) and there's some distance put between himself and his brother's... spectacle. "I don't know what he's doing here," a nod back to his twin, "...but I have come to pay respects to the bride." A little early. Iowerth is rarely early but he is never late.
     Unlike other people we all know...
     "And the ship's in the docks for repairs. Nasty bit of storm on the Outer Fringes." He's in his mother's arms, a big lad for that these days. All of Davydd's height but as of yet...none of his breadth. "I mean, you are getting married, aren't you? So I can stop being a bastard." He grins, Iowerth does, then the grin becomes a smirk. "Course, there's no help for him." Jade eyes go scantwise to his arriving brother.

     "Don't be ridiculous, darling!" Fiona hugs her older son tightly, then releases him, looking up with that serene smile he knows so well. "...You'll always be a bastard, no matter when or whom I marry." Okay, so that's not so sweet, and probably not a side of her that the boys have seen as much. But hell, they're old enough now. And they're visiting on her turf. Drancy looks out through grey eyes, smirking just a little bit.
     She releases Iowerth, turning now to Gwilym, who - predictably - is pointing and laughing at his brother. "And don't you get too cocky," Fiona retorts to the younger of the two. "I can still haul out those pictures, you know. Anyway, you two aren't bastards by faerie law, as you well know. You're part of a long and respected line, and it wouldn't kill you to act like it - once in a while, at least."
     Her younger son gets the same tight hug, and a kiss to where she can reach for good measure, and then he's released. "You two don't know how lucky you are, but I'm glad you did turn up early. I've a few things to go over with you." Uhoh.
     Gwilym makes a face as he's kissed by his mother, hugging her in return and rolling his eyes at Iowerth. "I'm here," he tells his brother, "to keep you out of trouble, of course. Why else would I be here? Well, and maybe to dance with the bridesmaids. Who are the bridesmaids going to be, anyway? And mother's right, Io - you'll always be a bastard," he adds with a shit-eating smirk of gargantuan proportions. "It's in your bones. Mother getting married can't fix it - but maybe a good chimerical surgeon can."
     Look, now, it's starting. Good thing her parents are in Cardiff. And Rhodri's not there to knock heads together, and Davydd's asleep. How will Fiona manage?

     "I suppose it is the Holly King's prerogative," to be a bastard, naturally. Iowerth sighs theatrically (also inherited) but then smirks, not caring either way. It was, after all, a joke. "Again with the bridesmaids," now it's his turn to roll his pair of eyes. "Everytime he sees a woman it's like it's the first time all over again. It's really quite tiresome. And I do hope you don't expect me to waltz with any of them," he says that to his mother, of course.
     "With his constant shoving of trollops in my face and faerie fancy dress parties, it's a wonder I can get anything real and important done." Ah, Iowerth. The serious one, now as ever. Though he smirks all the while, so it's frequently hard to tell when he's talking shite or not.
     Like his father, perhaps shite should always be assumed.
     "You should make sure, whoever they are, that they have plenty of... protection." Iowerth's eyes twinkle. "And a couple of bodyguards wouldn't hurt either."

     "I expect you both to waltz with them." Fiona says it oh so sweetly, lifting a hand to either boy's cheek in loving caress. "I also expect you to not sleep with ANY of them. In fact, if I find out that you've done anything inappropriate with any guest or participant in this wedding," there's sudden pressure against both boys' cheeks where her palms rest, "I'll personally see to it that you both can pass for nice Jewish boys from the waist down. Clear?"
     Gwilym's eyes go wide at the threat. "Mother! When would I ever do anything inappropriate? I mean, really," he's protesting theatrically, now, though also taking a quick step back and away from Fiona's hand. "Anyway, to hear my brother talk, you'd think I was in a different woman's bed every night." He casts a smirking glance over at Iowerth, a far-too-knowing sort of look. "Unlike my brother, the chaste virgin, hm? Chased is right. But why can't we have at the bridesmaids if we really want to? Don't you trust us to do the right thing, the noble thing, the honorable thing?"
     He's too good at keeping a straight face, really. Fiona gives him a look, then turns that look onto her eldest. "Do you two really want me to dignify this with a response? Though I suppose I should explain a few basic facts to you both. Sit down." Hands on her hips again. "I do think that there are things you should know, about ... protection."

     "Mother, I really don't think this is necessary..." Iowerth starts with a groaned sigh, as he too pulls from the Hand of Doom. "We have had sex without managing to create legitimacy concerns." He is like the worst of two worlds: Davydd's looks and your vocabulary. But he knows there's no point fighting it.
     With a wave of 'go ahead and lecture', Iowerth takes a seat. He cuts quite the nice military figure there on the bench. "You might want to pay attention, Gwi," he grins like Mercury, wide and swift. "You're the one with the worst odds." More partners, more risk of ... well... let's call it muddying the royal waters...
     Iowerth's jade eyes, though a soft green like clover, glint with a keen light. Despite himself, and just like his father, his ears go pink when he's a touch embarrassed...

     "Your father," Fiona cuts a look at Iowerth, "is the one with the bastards, and if he were here, he'd be rolling his eyes at what I'm telling you. That said, it isn't legitimacy concerns that have me worried for you two. You aren't used to the way things work here. I doubt either of you has had any experience with mortal women, and while fairy girls are nice and all, they aren't the same."
     Gwilym rolls his eyes, giving his brother a look inherited from his mother. "Ta for the vote of confidence," he drolls out, "but I know what I'm doing. At least she hasn't broken out diagrams," he stage-whispers. He doesn't look in the slightest embarrassed - if he is, he's concealing it well. He leans back on the grass on his elbows, not bothering with a bench as he looks up at his royal mother. "Go ahead, mother. We're listening. You'll excuse us if we pass notes in class, won't you?"
     Fiona rolls her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. "Look, you two. I don't lecture you about sex all that often - and I know more of what you two get up to than you might think. I'm going to talk to both of you about this, and then I'm going to talk to you both individually. There are things you haven't been told - not out of secrecy, but because until now, they haven't been important. Don't make the mistake of thinking that this world is like where you've grown up; it isn't. The rules are different, and fairy women and human women aren't much alike. I should know. I was born and grew up in this world, and my parents are both quite human. With me so far?"

     Arms come to cross over his chest, the mirror to another inherited look and mannerism. He looks down to Gwilym's smirking face and quite nearly guffaws. He manages to keep it to a throat-held, chortled choke. The blithe look soon returns. A look which is far more like his uncle than his father...
     The pink color fades in his own curiosity. "Do they have different parts or something?" He grins then uncrosses his arms and holds out his hands. Okay, I'll be serious. You're serious. I think she means this, brawd...
     Rising from the bench, Iowerth comes to join his brother on the grass. He reclines back, folding his arms back behind his head for a cushion. How changed they are from the two fat Welsh babies who once lay upon this same grass kicking pudgy legs into the sunlight. Then, as Now, the two corgies would nestle up against them. Bwci, Rhyddid, Iowerth and Gwilym all look to you as if children before a fire waiting to hear a story...

     "The parts are the same," Fiona says dryly, "but there are some additions. The reproductive cycle's a little different - human women aren't nymphs, you two, even if they get compared to them." She is, indeed, serious. Frightening, that. "For one thing, human women bleed monthly. Giving birth is painful, and most women here don't have magic to help them. They have science, which doesn't function quite as effectively as magic - and when science isn't available? There are plenty of things which can, and do, go wrong. Women have been dying in childbirth for centuries."
     She shivers; it's as if a goose just stepped on her grave. Maybe it did. She gathers herself for continuing, looking from one boy to another, no hint of humour in her eyes. "There's diseases, boys, which can only be had through sex or similar close contact. Some of them will make parts of your body rot and fall off - no, I'm not saying this to scare you, this is the truth. Festering sores, or diseases of the blood which will drive you slowly mad, or diseases which will destroy your own body's ability to fend off other diseases. And you can't tell who has such a disease just by looking at them; someone can carry these diseases and look perfectly healthy, for years, sometimes decades. But it doesn't stop them from getting you sick."
     She sits down in the grass, pulling her legs in to sit crosslegged. "You two've had an easy life in a lot of ways - not every way, and I'm grateful that your fathers kept me from spoiling you two thoroughly rotten," Fiona says quietly, eyes mercurial, shading between blue and grey. "...Magic might fix you two up, if something happened. But there's something a little more to it, too. These women aren't nymphs. They aren't going to sigh wistfully and then turn their attention just like that," she snaps her fingers, "to another satellite. Heartbreak is inevitable, but you two aren't thoroughly human - and though you don't mean to, you /could/ very easily lay a trail of emotional destruction in your wake, here. Iowerth - you've at least read up on human history, I know. Extrapolate from what you've read, and Gwilym, you extrapolate from what you've observed of me, putting aside, both of you, your emotional prejudices for a moment. No, not all women here are like me, and thank god for that. But ... think of what could happen. I don't often interfere with what you two get up to in terms of your sex lives. Do you think I would now, if I didn't have reason beyond just it being my wedding?"

     The whole thing sounds so distasteful. "Well, I think I've just lost all inclination to ever have sex again," Iowerth drolls, half-sitting up and leaning his weight on his elbows. He rolls his head against his shoulder, looking to his brother. He smirks, for that is his near constant expression when he's around his brother. "It is true. You should read about the Italian plagues..."
     Iowerth rolls up with an exhale and he looks to his mother. "Thanks for the warning. I promise I will not have sex with any of your bridesmaids, nor any other mortal woman I come across. Besides," an eyebrow lifts, "...what's the point of it? With so many harlots across the twelve kingdoms, let alone women of position and rank from whom one can procure contracts and favors far more meaningful than thirty minutes of squishing around in a dark London alley."
     He doesn't need any convincing. But then, Iowerth thinks of consequences as he takes actions. Far more than his father ever did. Perhaps that is the lesson the wild seas taught him.
     "Heartbreak is inevitable." He chuckles at that then shrugs. "Only if one gives one's heart." Iowerth comes to a stand, glancing down to his brother with a knowing look. We've just had this conversation. Looking to his mother, Iowerth smiles. He bends and kisses her on the cheek. "Do not worry."

     "I am not saying to never take a mortal woman to your bed. I am saying to be careful." Fiona frowns at Iowerth. "You may believe your heart invulnerable, but there are hearts other than your own."
     You are too much like me, Iowerth. Your heart will be your downfall. You have inherited my heartbreak, taken it in with my milk. And so you guard yourself so closely - you forego true joy along with that pain. It is one thing that your brother, perhaps, has learned better than you. The words are aimed, mind to mind, heart to heart. Words said privately by a mother to one of her two sons, where the other cannot hear. Even your time is finite, Iowerth. When the time comes, you will see what can be built for love. My kingdom was built for love, before you were born. When you get home, speak to the captain of my guard. Tell him I turn the key that holds the lock upon his tongue; perhaps it's time for you to learn more of this.
     And perhaps he will learn before he gets home, and that will not be needed. But she isn't holding her breath on that one.
     "Ugh. Still, we've got magic," Gwilym's more arrogant about it, convinced of his own immortality. "As you said, mother, magic fixes these things, right?" He rolls his eyes at his brother. "Fine, though, your bridesmaids're safe, and I'll have a care with any other mortal women I meet. What about the guests, though? You've invited /some/ who aren't mortal, surely?"
     Ah, look at that fragile blossoming of hope glimmering in those wild eyes...

     And his father's stubborn nature, along with your heartbreak. Though you speak these words to him, his face does not give it away. He apparently takes a break from the whole affair while Gwilym's lining up potential bedmates on his mother's sanctified day.
     Pain? I am not in pain, my mother. I simply have better things to do with my time than fall in love. I have oceans to explore, books to read, things to know, taste and see. One night, one day, perhaps it will be mine, but I will not waste my youth, however fleeting, on youthful indiscretions. My father has tasked me with much, and I do much to achieve it.
     Iowerth turns back to look at them both, mother and brother. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Always looking for an angle. Brother, why don't you bring your own? The gate's right there," Iowerth gestures with a wave. "Clarissa, I'm sure, would more than happily oblige. As it is, when I'm with her all she can talk about is you." Oh, that tone...
     Jealousy. His brother is far more popular than he with the ladies. But he has inherited his father's hardness, his mind, his loneliness. Such is the life of the son of the High King...

     We will see. Love does not come when expected, in this family. Love moves on its own timetable. It did so for me. It did so for your eldest brother, and for your father. And though you scorn him for it, for your younger brother as well. Until you have drunk deep from the cup of love, you cannot understand, no matter how many women have been to your bed. You will know, when you have been in love.
     She isn't going to harangue; she says that, and her attention is turned back to her other son. Her youngest. "You will not," Fiona says directly, "bring dates. If you feel you cannot manage for a single day and night without female companionship, then I will provide you with companionship of /my/ choosing." There's a sudden hard glint in her eyes, though her tone is sweetly reasonable. "What you do in London or Cardiff, I'll have little way of keeping an eye on. However, while you are /here/, under this roof, you will behave by the rules that I set. /Both/ of you."
     She has a soft spot for her boys - different spots, different things which trigger it. With Iowerth, she responds to that loneliness, that hardness, just as she does to his father's. It makes her want to hug him, really, and reassure him - but he's eighteen, and wouldn't appreciate it. Especially not in front of his brother. "I love you both," Fiona says finally, "and you'll find your own ways to do things. You always have. I can't protect you forever, and I know this. But while you are /here/ ... more than protecting you, I unfortunately need to protect others from you."
     Now she knows how Davydd felt...
     Gwilym, your brother needs you more than you need women. Have a care with what you do. There are things which he needs more than a pint and a woman in his lap. And until he finds his way, you're his conduit. You won't understand this now, but you will in time...
     He's not quite speechless at this, but he's uncomfortable; and Gwilym, who so rarely blushes, goes a bit red now, biting his lower lip. "...Yes, mother," he mutters, ducking his head and not looking over at this brother. "Can we go now?" A roll of his eyes. "Io," he calls over to his older brother, "come on. Let's leave our darling mother to her preparations and go into London. She's given us permission!" And that's enough to perk him up. Message, though, received...

     Iowerth's lips twist. Captain Io. Ha. "Alright, mother, we will be on our best behavior," the captain lilts, "...no imported women, no diddling the mortal girls, and hands off the bridesmaids. I think that's it," he looks to his brother with a wink and a grin, "We're going to go to London, unless there is something more, Queen Mother?"
     For all his droll humor and his reserve, even his stubbornness (and he's most stubborn about the topic of love and all you have had to say. It'll take a while to sink in. Like father, like son. Poor boy), he comes to you with a look and he bends to give you a hug and a kiss. "I'll keep my eyes on him," a nod back to Gwilym. "I am my brother's keeper..."
     Someone has to do it, the one twin thinks to his other. It's a wonder I have time to sail. Watching after you is a full time job he teases. Iowerth looks over his shoulder to his brother.
     "Anything else, madame, before we spirit hence to the land of our Fathers'?"

     "Nothing else." Fiona smiles, reaching up to hug her sons - first Iowerth, and then Gwilym. "You know I love you both. Try not to get arrested. If you need me, you know how to find me, and your fathers as well."
     And she steps back, looking at the two. Hard to believe, that these two came from her womb - it doesn't feel like it's been eighteen years. It certainly doesn't look like it. "Go on," Fiona says softly. "Get on with you. Before you break my heart all over again."
     Gwilym grins, bowing to his mother as he takes one step, then another, back and away. "What? Us? Never, mother. Your heart shall be as gently treated as if in our fathers' care."
     "That," Fiona retorts, "is what I'm afraid of. Go on," and now one hand lifts, almost threatening. "Away with you! Leave an old woman to the privacy of her own thoughts."
     You? Keep me out of trouble? comes the mental retort, one twin to another. Some day, Io... you're going to fall in and it'll be me, pointing and laughing, let me tell you. Come on - before she turns us into newts!

     Secretly, Iowerth is as much a joker as his father. As he backs away, following his brother, he transforms to a small iridescent dragon in a buccaneer's outfit, removes a feathered cap and lowly bows before transforming back and turning in his rockstar gear for the gate and the magical highway it encloses.
     Yes you... and why does everyone keep saying that as if I'm utterly unaware of Love as a concept? I know how to swim, thankyouverymuch. I'm sure I'll survive. Should the unlikely ever occur...
     Lastly the two corgies lift their heads to you, shifting their great weight and rolling onto their backs again. With a sniff and a woof, they turn their enormous ears toward the castle and, perhaps, the arriving footsteps of household staff, gardeners. Ah, the smell of lunch. Standing and shaking the grass from their coats, they bound up the stairs for the promise of food.

     I didn't, Gwilym retorts, say anything about falling in love. You've got it on the brain, is all - I was referring to falling in, as in, falling on your face. In the stuff. Trouble. I'm not the only one in this family who can, you know!
     He laughs, a bow to his mother and tit for tat, he turns into a wyvern, with feathered scales in glistening red and green, flapping his wings as he heads up the steps, circling back down and around Fiona and then back up to turn back to human with his twin. He whistles to the dogs, and then is gone - as if they'd never been.
     Fiona sighs, shaking her head and smiling, arms still folded over her chest as she leans back against a tree. "You caught all that, I'm sure, Rhodri. Whether or not you're actually here, though I've a feeling you are," she murmurs. "Somehow. Ah, my boys... if you only knew how much you break your mother's heart. But somehow, I've a feeling my heart's going to break worse before the day's over."
     Shaking her head, she turns, padding through the grass; this knoll's too public. Let's find something a little more private...
     And in her wake, the crushed grass renews itself with the sweet scent of bluebells, and bit by bit, the birds return to fill the stillness and the quiet with their song.

Posted by rowan at April 07, 2006 09:14 PM