It's the early stages of pregnancy, and Fiona is not happy about that at all. Her one consolation is, it's not morning, and morning sickness has mostly gone down (along with breakfast). Dinner has been sent out for; Indian food from downstairs. Spicy for you, mild for herself (although she casts wistful looks at the spicier dishes). Saffron rice with a mild chicken masala for her, topped with plenty of tangy yoghurt; spicy lamb curry for you. Plenty of naan as always, and for you, beer or wine; for her, freshly brewed tea.
     The table has been set with as much care as if it were your father coming to dine. She's wearing loose-fitting jeans and a pale blue button-up blouse, scalloped lace trim at the neckline. Her long hair's plaited back out of her way, and she's gone through the house lighting candles as the sun begins to set. And she's happy.
     Why wouldn't she be? Two husbands whom she adores (and is adored by in turn). Two sons who she adores. And a third on the way...

     He learned from a very young age to always knock upon his mother's door. With rooms as crowded as they can be with so many intertwined relationships, entering unannounced simply isn't and never has been a good idea. To do so would be the first step in total mortification.
     When the knock came it was simple. Three taps exactly evenly spaced. From the earliest days, he was always so purposeful. That has not changed, not in the several months of mortal time, or the twenty turnings of so-called years in the otherworld spaces.
     On the other side of the door, a young man alone. No lieutenant with him tonight, nor brother. But he's getting used to that. In his hands, a bottle of wine (no one has told him) and a solitary pink rose. It's not Mother's Day, but as the cards say, it always should be.
     He's dressed quite well -- he is still learning how to adorn his changing form. He wears his father's blazers now quite easily (they fit him in shoulders and the arms, if a bit loose along the waist, he having a ways to go before he fills out clothes like Llywelyn), and without them hanging off of him sloppily. Beneath that blazer, a t-shirt, plain and black, and a pair of jeans. The shoes are London fashion, those -- Doc Martens all the way.

     "Come on in," Fiona calls, setting napkins down and then coming to the door. "It's not locked."
     She should be more careful. Rhodri would have a fit. The door is then pulled open even if you haven't opened it, your mother smiling up at you from several inches below. "How's my oldest baby?", she croons, reaching up to hug you. Disgusting, isn't it? But you'll always be her baby. "Come inside, get that jacket off. You can take your shoes off too, if you want."
     She is barefoot. Her feet aren't too swollen yet, but it's just not all that comfortable - she's darting back inside already, hyperactive. "Come and sit down," Fiona urges, giving you that glimmering smile you know so well. "How are you settling in? Are you liking London? How about your brother and your friend, is it all going well?"
     She needs to slow down to let you answer - especially with questions like those. But she's continuing, heading for the chairs and dragging them out. "I'm so glad you came, Iowerth. I was beginning to think now you two've grown up, I'd never see you again..."

     Wine and the flower are held out of the way as your baby -- such as he is, cresting near six-feet tall. It is so easy to just tease you for all the questions, riffing off with humor. It's his own defense, much as gambling and women and dismissive cavalier confidence is Gwilym's. But he resists the urge. And just like he did at twelve, he stands there and lets you hug it out until you're quite finished with that.
     "Nos dda, mama," he murmurs. "I should put this in water," he notes of the rose cluster, "...and this in a glass," his other arm lifting the wine high. He hugs you lightly. With the wine and the bottle, he's really starting to look like his father.
     He offers the rose to you with a little smile. "Your oldest baby is hungry, as always. Greedy to the end, I think you would say." Iowerth takes the bottle of wine into the kitchen to pour. "Smells like Pashmina's." He smiles, glancing over to you as he prepares to uncork the bottle. "If I lived here, you'd not be able to get me out the door. I'd be enormous."
     Presumably the jacket will come off only after the wine is poured. Like father, like son. Priorities, priorities. He exhales as if he has to catch his breath after your litany of questions. "I'm settling in well, found a place and put down earnest money on it. Should have the deal hammered out by the end of the day tomorrow. I like London, but then I always have." He grins over to you. "I've been coming here since I was ten. I once got all the way to the ferris wheel before Captain Walters caught me." The Quartermaster -- and sometime baby sitter of the young captain Iowerth.
     You mention his brother. You of the motherly senses can surely tell that something's going on there. Iowerth shrugs, taking down a glass and pouring the red wine into it. He pulls down another glass, then glances to you. "Do you want some wine?"
     "I don't know," comes his voice over another sigh, "I can't figure him out these days. I guess he's fine. He's been keeping busy. To himself. Tiernan's fine. He's adjusting pretty well, actually. Better than I thought he would. I don't think he's ever been to this side of things. But he seems to fit in. Well," he smirks a bit, "... I need to get him to modern up his language. I suppose they'll just think he's in theater..."

     "You always were greedy - you and your brother both. And you - oh, flowers." You deflect her; she almost has to cry, and one small hand does come up to wipe at an eye, briefly. Fiona alters her course to the kitchen for a small vase and water, returning and fussing over the roses. It's a side of her not many people see...
     "It is Pashmina's, and yes, I've had this apartment since before I met your father. I used to be quite the wild one," Fiona gives you a sidelong look, daring you to claim anything else. "All before your time, of course, but it's true - there's people who remember it quite clearly. For them, it wasn't very long ago at all."
     She begins dishing up the food, adjusting things, fussing over you without fussing. She is happy, yes. You can tell; you can smell it. She is all but glowing, your mother is. "No, darling, no wine for me. I'll stick with tea tonight." A more than merely healthy helping of beef and rice, carrots and lentils and naan are set down in front of you with an air of finality - eat THAT! "I appreciate the thought, but you'll have to drink my share."
     She moves to her own chair, helping herself to a more modest amount of chicken and rice. No naan for her yet. Very blue eyes land on you, along with another smile. "Your brother loves you very much," Fiona says softly. "But he's a difficult one. In some ways, he's much more like your father than you - much more easily hurt than you. Of course, he also goes at things entirely the wrong way, throwing himself into brick walls and into harm's way. I don't think he knows how to do anything else." Also like your father. She picks up her fork.
     "So tell me about this place you're buying. Is your friend helping you much? I'm glad he fits in so well." Fiona leans back in her chair, fork held poised, not yet touching her food. "As to language - well, at least it's London. People might look at him a little funny, but noone'll think too much of it as long as he doesn't speak in tongues or the like. I got by, didn't I?"

     "That was...what... six months ago?" He smirks. He knows his barely an hour old here. It feels that way. Strange. Like he shouldn't be here, sometimes, but that will fade with time, he expects. As all things. He looks at you a moment after you turn down the wine, then he shrugs, setting the bottle on the counter and now, yes finally, removing his jacket.
     The short sleeves of the black t-shirt cannot keep all the seadragons at bay. They twist and coil around his biceps, those muscles there thickening with age and endeavors, dipping below the hems of those sleeves. One seems to have nine heads, all coiling around one another. A Hydra. The nine-headed beast of Chaos his father was always going on about, perhaps.
     Jacket over the counter, wine in the hand, he comes to join you at the table. He sets down the wine and begins to help himself to the food. "I think we're growing apart," Iowerth says it with the thud of finality, of understanding it was perhaps inevitable -- but still not liking it. "I know he loves me. He may even like me," periwinkle eyes lift to you, "...but right now... we don't know how to speak to one another, or... understand one another. I'm just as guilty. He hides things from me. There are things I can't tell him. I just think it's driving a wedge... and I don't know what to do about it."
     Iowerth shrugs as he tops off his plate. He's not a complete savage, unlike his father, and so spreads out the napkin on his lap before he starts shoveling the food in. There's a quizzical little smile as you mention his friend helping him. "He is." Shite-eating grin, that. "The place is a ship. An old torpedo ship from World War Two. It's been converted to a houseboat. It can still sail, though. I'm going to move it off Gabriel's Wharf. I don't need da peering down at me, he's on my case enough as it is."
     He's quiet for a few minutes while he eats. His skin flushes -- likely from the spices -- as he tears a bit of naan and has at the spiced beef. "You got by well enough. I'm sure he'll be fine. He likes it here." And I like having him... here. And there.
     Iowerth pauses for a swallow of the wine. He is quiet for a time. He watches you, he looks at his food. Something is on his mind. He's simply not speaking it. Yet.

     "The only thing to do about that sort of wedge is to tackle it head-on." Fiona speaks knowledgeably on this topic, watching you with sympathy as she tucks her chair in, looking at you. "You two always had your push and pull; even when you were still inside of me. Trust me, I remember it quite well." She smiles, a bit wistful - nostalgic for those long gone/barely passed days when you and Gwilym were small, so small. It's a mother thing...
     "Talk to him," Fiona says quietly, leaning forward to touch your hand. "Granted, he is uncomfortable with revealing himself - how could he be otherwise? He takes after your father, and, well," she admits it, "a bit after me. I'm better about it than your da, but it's not easy. And he's cloaked himself in shadows. Shadows take a toll on him. Maybe," she sighs again, "maybe we were wrong to raise you two so much over there. It would have been different, here. But - I was selfish."
     Her smile is lopsided as she makes the admission, and she blinks, having to lower her gaze to her plate to prevent the liquid spill of tears. Her emotions are close to the surface tonight - unusually so, even for her. Her napkin's picked up, her eyes wiped, and she looks to you. "A torpedo ship?" Fiona is suddenly focused again - interested. "How sea-worthy is it? But yes, I'd say it's probably wiser to not court your father's attention more than necessary. He can be awfully nosy for someone who dislikes others in his business so much." A brief, brilliant grin. "Did he ever tell you about the time I tried to break his nose? - How far do you intend to take the ship?"

     "Just further down The Thames, a quieter moorage. Where it sits now, it's right off Gabriel's Wharf so it's a bit loud. And you know how I like my beauty sleep," comes the wry drawl. "It's river worthy. I'm not sure if it can currently withstand The Channel. But I'll work on it. It might be fun to have a ship I can actually sail on these waters. Fewer pirates." He grins a bit at that. "But you know, I could always arm it and patrol the waters of Somalia."
     He's already laughing, guessing your reaction to that.
     "No, you didn't. But I'm sure he deserved it. He is a bit nosy. He means well, though," Iowerth notes. He means well, even when he's trying to kill me. "He's a complicated man, I'll give him that. I try not to wonder what he's thinking. I just... take what he gives me, and give it back in kind."
     Iowerth moves his food with his fork. "I've spoken with Gwilym. He does talk to me, even if I have to sometimes force him. It's not that. It's... just...Mum..." there is a question on his voice, "... if I tell you something... will you keep it in confidence? Even from da?"

     "Don't give your mother a heart attack, dear," Fiona tells you placidly, picking up a roll and throwing it at your head. "She's in a delicate enough state as it is. I just wondered if you were heading to France, since if you were, there are things I ought to make you aware of." You get a look to follow that up. Somalia. You had better not. She would have fits.
     "He is very nosy. And he panicked when he thought I might be after his secrets. He came close to killing me." Still placid, that, although utterly truthful. "Instead of us being married, I would have been quietly buried - or never found. It's in the past, obviously, and he adores me. I do my best to keep him wrapped around my little finger so that he'll continue to finance my shopping trips." That part's a little less truthful, and you get a minxish smile. You didn't get your mischief just from your older brother, you know.
     You grow serious, and so does she, setting her fork down and pushing her chair back as she regards you, hands folded against her thighs. "It depends," Fiona says finally. "If it's none of his business, then I won't tell him. If it's his business, I can't promise that up front - not and still be truthful. But if it's a secret I can keep, then yes, I'll keep your confidence. You're my son, and I'll do anything I can for you. What's troubling you?"
     Her gaze is keen. Something is troubling you. That she knows. You are more like Rhodri in this than like your own father; sometimes, she wonders if you and Gwilym weren't almost ... swapped at birth, or before birth, in some way, the soul of one inhabiting the other's body. You with your hair so like Davydd's, and your spirit so much more like your older brother's. Him with his fairer hair, but that almost masochism, almost sulkiness. "Talk to me, Iowerth, hm? Come here." Fiona pats her side lightly. "Let's talk."

     He remains where he is for now. He's too big to sit at your knee, and god forbid he attempt to crawl on your lap! "It doesn't concern da's business. I can't imagine how it would," he adds. With an exhale, Iowerth sits back, napkin surrendered to the table for now.
     "I am in love," he says plainly, matter-of-factly -- since it is a matter of fact. His eyes lift to you and he keeps his gaze there. "And Gwilym's not taking it well. At all. I think he's trying, mother. I really do. But I think he... just can't accept who it is. The more I reach out for him, the more closed Gwi gets. And just when I think he's come to terms with it, he flips out again and disappears for nights on end. I don't know what to do. I don't like simply leaving it at: well, it's his to sort out, he'll come around eventually. What if he doesn't? He's..."
     Now, he's like a doppelganger of his own father. When he wants to cry, he fights it every step of the way. His eyes get red-rimmed and glassy, his face explodes in color, his body goes rigid and he folds his arms against his chest. Nope, I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry. That moisture on my face? It's your imagination.
     "He's my best friend," Iowerth says, his voice quiet and controlled (more like Rhodri in tone and temperament but Davydd in aspect). "And if he can't look at me or... won't be around me... I'm not sure love is worth all this sometimes."
     "And," Iowerth groans a sigh, looking up at the ceiling, "... if you're thinking it's Tiernan, you're right. But I'm just going to go on the record as saying I still very much like women and will marry when it's appropriate for the crown prince to do so. I'll have you swimming in grandchildren before your next child's out of nappies."

     In love.
     Well... this is something she can relate to. Her expression is immediately sympathetic. Her expression puckers in response to yours, and she rises from her seat, moving to where you sit, to behind you, her arms going round your neck. She kisses the top of your head as she listens to you, holding onto you in a gentle hug. She is your mother. How else can she react to your pain?
     "You're in love," Fiona answers you matter of factly. "It doesn't matter who it's with; not to me. It matters to you, of course, and I imagine it feels rather like a punch to the gut, held there and not letting go. It's hard, being in love."
     She hugs you again, one hand coming to stroke your hair back from your forehead. "If Gwilym is having a hard time with it - it is probably more because he cares about you than because it's a boy, sweetheart. None of us are good at letting go. He has a lot of pain, that one. Maybe more than I thought."
     Now Fiona comes round to in front of you, her hands to either side of your face as she looks down into your eyes. "Iowerth, don't compound the problem by letting your brother run forever. He is your brother, and if need be, I'll smack some sense into him myself. But I don't think for a minute that he is running away from you because of you. None of us are that spiteful; if he's running, it's because of himself, and you should know him well enough to recognise that. Remember when the two of you were ten, and he started skipping classes? You blamed yourself for that, too." She taps your nose lightly, then kisses your forehead.
     "Talk to him. If you have to pin him down, I give you permission - just this once." Fiona smiles at you. She knows it doesn't matter if she gives you permission or not. "As for it being Tiernan ... I'm a little surprised, but - well, I shouldn't be. The signs were there. I hope he makes you happy. I won't pretend I'm not concerned, but I'd be concerned no matter who either of my sons fell in love with; it goes with the territory. We want to protect our children just as long as we possibly can. But you won't have me swimming in grandchildren quite that quickly, dear. Not unless you intend to get married within a year."

     An eyebrow cocks up. You're not. You are. A few weeks ago, and he might have rolled his eyes. But he's older now, he won't say wiser, but definitely more sympathetic. "Congratulations. Am I to be a brother or an uncle?... Well, brother-uncle." He knits his eyebrows. "You know, this is very confusing... all this brother-uncle-cousin business."
     Iowerth is quiet for a time, as he holds onto you holding onto him. "I guess I've always viewed him as my responsibility. He's my womb-mate," he smiles. "Even if he can't handle being my roommate at this point." That does bother him. And maybe a reason he is moving so quickly to move out -- above and beyond simply wanting privacy, understandable though that is.
     "I will try not to let him run. I've been pressing him. You know how I am." Unrelenting, the captain. Even when he appears to be relenting. "But it hasn't been helping. And god no...don't say anything. He'd be furious with me. And for gods sake, don't tell da." His eyes go humorously wide. "I don't want his heart attack on my conscience."
     His hand pats your arm. "And try not to worry. Gwi's watching out for me. I told him to spy as much as he could take. But I don't believe, nor does Gwi, that Tiernan poses any risk. Still... we are being cautious. Even more than two princes in love would ordinarily be. And Gwi... watches out for me. Even if he can't accept it." He shrugs at that. Iowerth wants him to, quite clearly. "Maybe it'll be better once Tiernan and I are in our own place."

     "You're to be an uncle," Fiona looks amused, "as well as a brother. Rhodri and my's honeymoon trip, remember? Well - possibly after the trip, but it's Rhodri's fault. The brute." And yet she glories in it in a way few modern women would admit to. Pregnant. Knocked up. Claimed. She blushes, and you can feel how pleased she is.
     Your mother touches your cheek again, smiling. "I won't tell your father. That's for you to decide to do - I'd say do it sooner or later, since eventually he's bound to walk in on you, and that's not going to go half so well. But it's your choice. It's your life, darling. You are my son and I want what is best for you - but you're also twenty years old, which feels impossible to me, having a son the same age as me... I can't tell you how to live at this point. I can advise, and if you really screw up, I'll pull parental privilege fast enough, but love?" She sighs and laughs all at once. "You are my boy, and look at me. Married at twenty to two men whose ages add up to close to fifteen hundred. Father and son, moreover. I don't think love is going to be easy for any of us, but it can be so richly rewarding... if you've found love, who am I to tell you no?"
     She tugs lightly on your hair, so like your father's, and she smiles at you wistfully. "Don't worry about grandchildren. I'm not in a hurry. I seem to be popping out enough babies for this family for a while. You are so intense. Remember to enjoy what you have. As for your brother..."
     Fiona lets your hair slide from her grasp, then pats your cheek again. "Talk to him," she says simply. "This family is not good at dealing with things, with space. The last time I gave your father space, he left me. It took your older brother courting me to get him back. I am sure he is watching out for you - but if he is having so strong a reaction, then ... maybe he needs help dealing with it, Io. All of us need help sometimes. Will you let him drown?"

     "No," he says simply. "I just don't know how to help him. But... I'll never leave him to drown, mum." The rest he simply absorbs. You can see him tense up at the notion of Davydd walking in on him. That, he's not prepared to deal with. He can't even think about it at the moment.
     "If I can get Gwi to turn around on it, then maybe I'll talk to da. But... I'm guessing that's going to go rather less well. I should at least have one success before sliding into abject failure."
     He smirks at that and returns to picking at his food. "I'm not good at leaving things well enough alone. Neither is Gwilym. So... maybe we'll just keep butting heads until he gets comfortable with the pain." He chuckles suddenly, then shrugs.
     What else is there to do but keep trying?
     I don't know. Everything I try seems to go wrong with Gwilym. I guess I'm not as smart as I think I am, if I can't see past this.
     "Yeah?" He snorts and reaches for his wine. "Finally, I find something you can't say 'no' to. I guess I better bring Tiernan by?" He looks at you pointedly. You will want to do the motherly inspection, he supposes.
     "I'll talk to Gwilym, I promise. Maybe... I don't know, maybe it will be better when he has his own space. He doesn't feel like he has to compete." With a clearing breath, he sets all that aside, takes another swallow of wine and turns to you.
     "Have you told da yet? I'll have to pick through his hair looking for greys. Another grandson." He chuckles. "Though, perhaps I should be more sympathetic to crown his favor for later." Periwinkle sparkles in the wink and he finishes the wine. He holds up his hands. "I don't want to know too much, but I'm glad you had fun on your honeymoon." He laughs at that. "Did you see any of the temples around Mahabalipuram?" Your son, the history buff.

     "Pin him down. Beat some sense into him. With you two, sometimes that's the only way you'll learn." Fiona's smile widens, and she bends to kiss your cheek, then moves to return to her seat. "As for telling your da, are you joking? He told me!"
     Right after I tried to kill him. But you do not need to know that. Or perhaps you do. "We all make mistakes, Iowerth," Fiona says quietly, settling back in her chair. "Even me. Even your da. Perhaps especially your da. I nearly killed him for one of his mistakes not long ago. All I'm saying is ... sometimes, pain escapes. And it does hurt. But love is more powerful, if we let it be."
     She reaches for her plate, dragging it closer and giving you a tolerant look. "We saw temples, yes, but we saw more of each other. And yes, of course I want to meet him! If my oldest son - and you'll always be that - has fallen in love, your mother needs to appraise the merchandise! Let's see what you're bringing into this family, and hope to heaven he isn't easily scared off."
     You receive a quick, brilliant smile, signs of moisture at the corners of her eyes. "You are and will always be my son, Iowerth. I will always remember holding you in my arms for the first time, no matter how big you get. No matter how much things hurt ... you can always come home. Remember it."
     "Now ... tell me about your boy..."

Posted by rowan at June 13, 2006 06:10 PM