Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?
     I've been to London to see the queen...
     "Mum had me over for dinner."
     Gwilym is seated cross-legged on one of the tables in the library of Fiona's palace. He wasn't there a moment ago; a moment ago there was nothing but shadow there. He sits there, clad in black jeans and a white t-shirt, black boots shiny in their newness. His hair falls into his eyes as he looks at you, expecting you not to be surprised.
     Green, those eyes, like yours and not like yours. Jade green, his. No periwinkle to their depths, just something of sunlit hills and the edges of forests. Like his father's eyes, those - your older brother's eyes. They regard you with anticipation, his hands resting loosely on his ankles, a thumb stroking the leather. And he looks away.
     He's filled out a bit in the past couple of years, as have you. Not so much as you; there's still an almost prettiness, a fineness to his features (he gets that from his father) and his hair has the silky-softness of red and blonde mix (a little from his father, and a little from your shared mother). "Strangest meal I ever ate. None of the china matched. Pickles, hamburger, cream cheese on rye toast, and odd little pastries that came straight from a freezer. With ice cream and a wine sauce for dessert. Something's distracting that woman." He shakes his head.
     He's a little taller than he was, but for the first time in a while, you're taller than he is. Gwilym's been hating that. His shoulders aren't as broad as yours (and may never be, depending), but his arms are long, fingers long and dextrous. Now they pull a set of keys from his belt, he has to lean back to do so, and he dangles them before you. "She wanted to give me," he informs you, "keys to the flat. You should have a set as well. Why mum's giving me of all people keys is a bit beyond me, but well, we'll allow the dear woman to hold her illusions, oes? Papa talk to you yet?"

     Heave... ho... heave... ho...
     The pulling of ropes, the lowering and unfurling of sails, the mastery of the ship on the tossing dark and chaotic seas have formed him over the past turning of the Otherworld's wild clock. Here, another year ...and another... turned as preparations for London began. And in that time, he has started to favor his own father more and more...
     Iowerth has gained an inch in height. This is not what's startling. What is startling is the breadth that the crown prince has gained. Shoulders and biceps, the width of his chest; these are most pronounced in their difference in two years. The sea appears to agree with him. But his hands are not fine, not like yours. His features, while defined by high cheekbones, his father's small Brythonic nose and a good strong jaw, he does not have your beauty. That heart-squeezing, mind-wrenching beauty. You are a Paragon, while everything about him speaks of the wildness of the oceans, strength of coastal rock. His rough hands are callused by ropes, large -- his father's legacy of a paw-like grip.
     But what has not changed? The quiet intelligence of those eyes, more periwinkle now than green, the green pushed to the far edges. His fiery copper hair is deep in tone, much as his father's, and he keeps it short, the thickness of it holding the style with little more effort than the lazy raking of a hand.
     Iowerth glances up as you enter, his eyes pulling themselves away from the view of his latest maps, maps that are made with his own magic, snapshots from his own eyes and mind given to the page verbatim. He has struggled at sea from time to time. Pirate skirmishes have come and gone. The map shows where he nearly drowned in a massive whirlpool. It swirls darkly in the center of the furthest sea.
     "Oes, he has. Well, about London. I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to do there." His eyes gain a twinkle, "...apart from torment you." The drawl is the same lazy, droll drawl. Still soft and smooth in its winding way. Perhaps a shade deeper.
     He turns away from the maps, giving his attention to you. Like you, he's not dressed for this world but for the other, wearing dark distressed jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Midnight blue seadragons now swirl down his arms, pooling in dark coils at his right wrist. The sleeves are short, pulled tight at the biceps. With a cantwise smile, Iowerth regards you. "Why not give you the keys? You'd get in the joint whether she'd want you to or not. She might as well give you the keys, yeah? It's the same either way."
     He comes to lean his weight against the table, his arms crossing against his chest. "You'll have to get used to take-out. But I've already scoped some of the best joints. I've made you a list actually. I know... you love me," Iowerth chuckles. "The least I can do. I'll need a set of those. I haven't had a chance to pop over and find my own place. Don't worry, I won't be your roomie for long. I figured you'd want the large flat above the pub. It's right on The Strand. Perfect place for a master thief."

     His smile is as quick and stealing as his father's. Thief; thief of hearts, of passions, of things best left and done in the dark. You might give proof of your age; he, though, he's still caught between boy and man. Truthfully, he isn't entirely pleased. But what can he do? He hides his displeasure with his stealthy ways.
     "Here." The keys are tossed to you in an arc, and he unfolds himself to stand. His arms are unmarked, still. If it makes him feel any less, he doesn't say so; doesn't show it. "As you point out, I have my own ways in and out. I'm still not entirely sure what I'll be doing myself. I'll figure it out. The first thing I intend to do," your brother smirks, "is throw myself one hell of a party. Duw!"
     He exhales, unfolds himself from the table and rises to his feet. Hands are shoved into his jeans pockets, now, and he looks you up and down. "You're loving the hell out of this, aren't you." Gwilym says it without rancor. "The flat's rather nice, but I'm not as sure I'd stay forever as you think. Centrally located, that's true, but traipsing through or past the pub every time ... too many eyes on my business for my liking. Mum worries so, you know?" He winks, closing one eye. "I like being a little harder to track down than that. Between da and papa, it'll be hard enough as it is. Besides." He wrinkles his nose. "I'd like my own bed."
     There is much he is not outright saying...

     The eyebrow comes up, a slow arch that accompanies the tipping down of his chin. "Loving the hell out of what?" His hand comes up and catches the keys. He looks them over then puts them in jean's pocket. "What area of town are you thinking?" Iowerth smirks. "Let me know, and I'll move to the other side."
     He didn't suddenly go from 18 to 30, but he's a full twenty that's for certain. Iowerth pushes off the table slightly, turning to roll up the maps. They will first go to his mother's cartographers before being presented to the High King.
     "I wouldn't want to crimp your style," he drawls out. "Though I hope you don't plan on avoiding me the whole time." Not that Iowerth will be alone. You know that he will have his courtier with him. Maps rolled, he steps away, dragging a hand through his hair as he sits heavily in one of the equally heavy chairs. "I definitely don't want them popping around whenever the hell they feel like it. They're nosy enough from a distance, Duw. That's the last thing I need."
     Fingers lacing on his stomach, his legs stretching long (you'll be taller than he eventually and then finally), Iowerth looks at you. "A party." He starts to grin, mostly it lives in his eyes. "I think I'm going to take a bit of time and just... relax." He needs it. You can see it in his eyes as he says it. It's been brutal, whatever he's been involved in -- storms, pirates, his father. You name it. "And look for a place to live. I have my eyes on a boat." He chuckles, "I know, I know. You'd think it'd be the last thing I'd want to see. But there's one up for sale. I have a bid on it...actually."

     "You like the water too much to be parted from it." Gwilym says it simply, as factually as saying the sky is blue in the daytime. "I'd be more surprised if you didn't want a boat, brawd. Tell you what - you stick to the water and the docks - even though that's a bit of a sacrifice, for me, considering my ... affiliations ... and I will ... take everything else."
     He is so magnanimous. He laughs at himself, a flash of teeth for you at his mock-greed. The smile fades, though, and he looks to you in silence, brows lowering, broodingly staring at you. "...For the time being, I suppose we'll need to work out a schedule, hm," Gwilym drawls, hands coming out from his pockets and folding behind his head. "Until we find places of our own. I won't be home much after dark, if that helps any. I'll try not to infringe on your time there more than I have to."
     He is being delicate. Careful. Trying not to sound bitter, or jealous, or resentful. One corner of his mouth quirks up, and he says quietly, "You should take some time to relax, brawd. I worry about you, you know. You're not ..." Gwilym nods towards your markings. You know. "...You aren't invincible. No matter what some people might think."
     He crosses to one of the other tables, sitting on the edge of it, letting his legs swing. "I'm scouting for an apartment over one of the little clubs. Music in the evening, cheap vodka, easy women - all the things mother'd warn me against. I don't plan on avoiding you, Io, I just ... I don't know. I have - things to figure out."

     Each mark was hard fought and hard won. He's never talked about it. But you've seen him after each one -- worn to the bone. The last ones nearly claimed him and his ship. Each one, more painful than the last. you speak of his invincibility and his eyebrows lift, his expression on the end of insane laughter. He only chuckles, his expression resolutely saying: Are you mental?
     "I do need some time to rest," he admits. "To just... be... without having to do anything, be anything, go anywhere, discover anything. Maybe ... that's what I'm supposed to do there. Prepare for the ... next round." Round. Round of what?
     He's as adept at changing the schedule as you are, switching easily from topics on his tiredness and marks to you. Yes, let's talk about you. Iowerth smiles at the mention of easy women. "Maybe I should take the clubs and you take to the water," he chuckles. He nods then, his laughter quieting. "I understand, Gwi. You've had some things on your mind for ... a while." He's not blind. Or stupid.
     Iowerth exhales as he stretches. "I wouldn't dream of taking the docks from you. The boat is a house boat, well, formerly a torpedo boat. It's docked on the fashionable South Waterfront. A bit close to da's place for my comfort but... I'm hoping I can moor it closer to Waterloo and away from Gabriel's Wharf. As for... a schedule... we'll work something out. You'll be out evenings. I'm sure I'll stay in during the evenings and be out during the day. You know... when the libraries are open."
     Iowerth winks at himself at the notion of libraries. But to be honest, that's where he's likely to be. There, the museums, the cafes. "I won't bother telling you to be careful. You wouldn't anyway, and it's not your style. Tiernan and I will be sure to give you your space while we're all packed in like sardines. He might even get his own place. We're not sure yet."

     He gives you a long, hard, measuring look, devoid of that habitual smile. Humour has left him, and there's nothing but thought, there. Contemplation. "Have I ... always been this way, Io? This hard to live with?" Gwilym lets his feet swing, hands braced against the edges of the table, shoulders squared. "Has it always been this way, and I only just never noticed until this past year or so?"
     With us ... so ... squared away, on opposite sides, as it were. With all the things I don't tell you weighing me down from inside. With all the things you won't tell me pulling us away from one another.
     "Has this ... gap ... always been here, and me just too blind a fool to notice..."
     He looks away, abruptly, hair falling back into his eyes, inevitable as snowfall. "Never mind," Gwilym interrupts himself brusquely. "But oes, I won't be going to museums and libraries during the /day/. Except when I'm checking them out prior to robbing them blind, of course. Don't worry about me. If you and ... Tiernan ... need your space, I'll make do. That's why to pick up girls with their own bedrooms, oes? Rather than having to sneak past their parents."

     "You've had a lot on your plate, brawd. More than usual. More than your share," Iowerth notes. "I know you're troubled. You've told me a little, not all. I know there are things I haven't told you, mostly because I don't want you to be so worried about me you stop living your own life." He cuts a grin, he looks like da when he slants a smile like that.
     "Let's see: your brother, with whom you've been connected at the hip since the womb, gets covered in tattoos, not only takes a lover but takes a male lover, you start looking differently, acting differently from one another. Shite, I'd be more worried about you if you seemed to be taking it all in stride."
     Iowerth tips his head to the side, then back, his gaze studying you. "I think ... you're putting yourself under a great deal of pressure, brawd. Too much. Not to succeed, but that you have to sort it all out immediately. Digging in your heels to stop Time. Maybe it's a control issue," Iowerth shrugs. "I don't feel we're growing apart. I feel we're simply growing up." And maybe that's the biggest difference between you now. "I don't know. I don't remember you being so concerned about station before. But... maybe you have been and you just never told me. There are some things, brother, that I haven't told you. But it's not because I don't love you, or trust you. It's just... not time yet. And... there are some things Da has sworn me to ... keep to myself. About...my work. But you know the important things: about who I am, what I like, where I'm going. I don't know...we both set up our own obstacles, don't we?"
     The smile softens then. "We're our own worst enemies. I wonder where we get that from?" The smile slants once more. You know where.

     "I'm not pushing for you to tell me things except when I can see you cutting yourself on them. When I see you bleeding, brawd, you'd damned well better expect me to be there, so get used to it." He rattles it off, colour rising with emotion, and he glowers at you pugnaciously. "Whether it's because you're getting your arse plowed regularly or not doesn't matter."
     How can he manage to be sentimental and yet stick both feet in it at the same time so efficiently? It's a gift. He stands up on his own two feet, exhaling loudly. "I ... have my own things to work out," Gwilym agrees with a roll of jade eyes. "How... what... I don't even know yet. But ... not being you ... I can't go be still to find out answers. I need to ... thrust myself into the noise until things start to make sense. Until I find my own silence by drowning myself out."
     A knife's taken from the small of his back. He hasn't been shirtless around you since not long after your revelations. Coincidence? Is he uncomfortable now, knowing that your eyes might be appreciative of male flesh? Or does he have something to hide? Have you even noticed?
     "We both are keepers of secrets," Gwilym says finally. The knife's brought up to the long fringe that dangles in front of his eyes; with his other hand, he pulls the fringe straight, and he lops it off. It sticks up a little, now, unruly - but nowhere near what it was. "It is as much a part of what and who we are as anything. I don't hate you for it. I don't blame you for it." The knife's replaced without looking. He practiced that for hours upon hours, until he got it right.
     "It'll work out." Gwilym moves away from the window, with its sunlight streaming in, towards the shadows, casting the cut strands of hair behind him. "We have each other to keep half an eye out, and that's more than most people get. I ... have things I must do before we go, brawd. I'll ... I suppose I'll see you in London, then."

     Iowerth makes a quiet sound, something like a snort and a laugh all at once. "Good god," he drawls. "Can you leave the ass plowing out of it, please," he exhales at that. "We'll all feel better in the end." And then he barks a laugh. Riot!
     Get it? All feel better... in the end!
     He waves at you, rolling in his own laughter -- at himself. No no, go on, never mind me.
     "Duw," Iowerth breathes, wiping at his eyes, chuckling in spurts. "I'd expect you to be there to protect me from bleeding. You have my back, and I have yours. That's the way of it, brother." With a clearing exhale, he ends his laughter. "You have a different way, that's fine. No one's asking you to be me. I don't think the universe could take it. And you'd hate it anyway."
     Iowerth hasn't noticed the subtlety of the shirt-no-shirt. He hasn't thought twice about it. He would roll his eyes if he realized it, but he doesn't. "You leaving already? You ask me a question like what's bothering you, I give you my advice, and you're heading off then?" His voice smoothes its way out in teasing, warm tones.

     "Oes, well, the universe'd hate it too," Gwilym cracks. "Two Iowerth Rhudd Draigs? Perish the thought! Lock up your sons! And if you became like me - lock up your daughters and your farm animals, besides!" He'll poke fun at you, but at himself as well. No, you may not get off lightly - but neither does he.
     You get a wry smile, and he steps into shadows. "Can't hold back the path of Time, no," Gwilym calls to you. "But, once in a while, oh, wouldn't it be grand if we could? What am I to say, Io? We can banter all we like, but ... right now, I've things I need to do. Places I need to go see. I need ... I suppose I need more noise before I can make much sense."
     His eyes say it to you where his mouth cannot. I am sorry, brawd. "I'll ... see you in London, oes? I won't get to do my usuals so much, so I'll be popping back here every so often to let off some steam. No magic. Pah, that's going to be annoying. But you'll know how to find me."

     "Oes," Iowerth waxes theatrically, "...I'll listen for the squeals of young girls and the sighs of their ...well-satisfied mothers." With a quiet laugh, he nods to you, lifting his hand to wave. He'd grab a hug, but you're already on your way.
     "I'll see you there. Have no fear. Just when you think you've given everyone the slip... I'll find you." He is the only one who can, really. The only one who can find you when you don't want to be found. You are shadows. He is quicksand.
     We are heading where the Time passes more slowly. Maybe that is what we both need, my brother. Slowing down the universe. It'll make the pockets easier to pick at least...
     He leaves you with that thought. Or, rather, you leave him. As the library empties, Iowerth rises. Tiernan... are you ready? I have the keys to the loft... we have a bed to land in. At least until we find our own...

     There is a curl of shadows closing around him, swallowing him hungrily. He gives himself to shadows, and they take him; there is a cost, of course. There is always a cost.
     Even if it is only the loss of innocence, there is a cost...
     I move between raindrops, he sings to you. I dance between waves. Where the shadow on a moonless night grows, I am there. My knife blade edged with crimson. My footsteps edged with pain. I am a thief, brawd ... and being a thief means someone will miss something before dawn has broken. But! Soundless laughter along the link as the last curl of shadow unfolds. I'm okay with that...
     And he is gone. It is as if he was never there, your brother. Your shadow-self.

     I'm ready, your lover answers you, unaware of fraternal tribulations. These trousers itch a little, but they're not too uncomfortable. I look like someone my mother wouldn't recognise.
     He comes round the corner, blue eyes seeking you - seeking and finding, as he leans in the doorframe with a little grin. "I'm all packed," Tiernan tells you, folding his arms over his chest. "Ready whenever you are, really. I've got one of those dufflebags stuffed with my things. I'll have to get more clothes once we're there."
     He won't mention the stowaway under a fold of cloth, clinging to his work kit. He'll wait and see how you react when, in due course, Leon makes his miniscule presence known. In truth, he isn't sure if Leon will survive the trip between worlds - but it is Leon's choice to find out, isn't it?
     Just as it is his own choice to accompany you. "I'll follow you anywhere," Tiernan reminds you, straightening and sweeping his hair back with a palm. "So get moving so I can, hm? Good night, Kingdom of the Flowering Tree. Good morning, London."

Posted by rowan at June 08, 2006 06:21 PM