The call came around six o'clock, with retreating daylight heading toward twilight, a good hour from darkness yet. Iowerth's body language changed immediately. From relaxed and intimate to hard and purposeful. He became a captain, a general, even a king right before your eyes.
     And the word papa and da became interchangeable.
     After the call, brief as it was, came to an end, your captain showed himself again. Lift that pillow, tote that blanket! What had been efficient tidying before, following several hours of complete and utterly decadent dismantling, now had to be the very spic of the span.
     Two beds that showed the signs of being slept in had to become all three beds. Your belongings moved from the master bedroom to the third bedroom (with Gwilym now in between you). It was done with swiftness, all the alacrity he could manage in fact, and then the bed was made neatly. Yes, you sleep here. But you aren't a savage.
     And now, Iowerth Rhudd Draig is pacing. I don't know where to put my hands. It's not going to matter in the end. I need to relax. Iowerth stops pacing and opens the balcony doors to let the air in. The balcony is more a landing, wrought iron, than a proper balcony.
     Stepping out on it, he leans with his hands on the railing. "Oh... we should pour drinks. Here... I'll do it..." He comes back to the living area and strides (like his father, like Mars, like Mercury) to the bar and kitchen area. He takes out a glass and pours a pint with a whisky back (bourbon, that, and in a small glass), two fingers worth.

     Let is never be said that Tiernan cannot pitch in when there is a need. He has helped you move things, although he has also watched you. You are acting so nervous, beneath that kingly demeanor. What is going on?
     But he does not complain; does not question. It is one more thing which he has come to simply accept, in being with you; being your lieutenant. Everything is tidied; he disappears into the bathroom, giving it a quick wiping-down. The kitchen receives the same treatment, and some leftovers starting to moulder are pitched, the garbage even taken down.
     Not a crumb out of place. Not a sausage to suspect. "Looks to me like you could use a drink yourself, your highness," Tiernan says quietly. He goes to you - just for a moment - and touches your hand. Just for a moment, that; that, and a look, reassurance, appraisal. I am here. I'm not afraid, whatever's coming. We'll deal with it. We've lived with our secret this long. Don't worry.

     Iowerth takes your hand as you touch him. He clasps it then smiles. There is nervousness there -- it is bred out of a kind of perfectionism. Wanting everything to be right, to be perfect, to be without reproach. To impress the one who is coming. I know... I'm not afraid. His reassurance comes softly.
     "But I could use a drink. How about for you?" He pours a pint for himself, no whisky. He wouldn't dare. Not yet anyway. After the visit, maybe. He takes out another glass and starts a pour for you. The beer is from cans, but keg cans. They pour almost as good as the tap. Well... almost...
     Iowerth looks up, his eyes fixing on the door for a moment. Heavy steps are sounding on the stairs outside. "He's here," he murmurs. Periwinkle eyes fix on you. His mouth lifting at the corners. I love you... be strong. And he finishes it off with a wink.

     Just in time for a heavy handed knock. "Hide the women, put the guns away," comes the clipping of a great voice.

     "Thank you." You receive such a look from blue eyes. There is love in that. There is strength of emotion; of devotion. "A drink'd go down well after all that work." He says with his eyes what he cannot now say with his voice, and settles himself into a chair. I love you, too. Don't worry about me. There is nothing he can do to me that mother has not. So he believes.
     And then there is the sounding of a fist against the door. Tiernan knows his place. He rises automatically, instinctively. "I'll get it," the prince of Winter Diamond states unnecessarily, crossing to the door. With swift, easy motions he unlocks and unbolts and unchains the door (as if it could keep out anyone of your family anyway) and the door is swung open. "Sir," he says respectfully, stepping back and out of the way. "'Evening."
     He is clad, for the record, in jeans and a long-sleeved white t-shirt. The jeans are, admittedly, designer; they fit uncommonly well. The shirt is silk-screened across the front with a pacing lion; it reminded him of Leon, and so he bought it. His hair is clipped shorter than it would have been times past, but still looks a trifle shaggy; wisps of a fringe fall forward, but not into his eyes. "Come in, we've got a drink waiting for you, you must be thirsty."

     You come face to face with an older version of your own lover. Fast-forward Iowerth about sixteen years and there you have it. He's tall, he's broad. And he has a presence about him that extends forward. It may be possible that Iowerth never has this breadth, but he has that face.
     And that expression. Eyebrows lift and the king takes a good look at you. "You must be the Lieutenant." He comes in as you move out of the way. He doesn't head straight for the drink, though he does see and appreciate them. Instead, he reaches for his son, pulling him in to a back-slapping, mighty hug. "You look straight out of Harrod's with that," he notes of his son's outfit. "And you've grown. I'm not so sure about this looking you in the eye thing. You're going to get an inch on me." Davydd grins in a slant, his dark green eyes shining.
     "Come on in, come on. Let's have a drink and get acquainted. So," he turns his attention to you Tiernan and to the drinks, "... first names. I haven't been told you were here, let alone what you're called, young man."
     The High King is dressed in leather coat, which shows the effect of the rains happening outside, and beneath that a short sleeved shirt. Dragons and the marks of the Holly King run the full length of his left arm. His arms are greater than his son's, even. He's a huge bulk of a man. The sort they used to make. His trousers are a lightweight wool.

     Iowerth hugs his father back. You can see how the boy absolutely idolizes him. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, da," he smirks.

     "Not yet any way," Davydd cracks with a grin, heading for the drinks. Ah good, everyone's going to be drinking. He takes the whisky, pausing to drink for the introductions.

     "Oes... Tiernan of the Kingdom of Winter Diamonds... this is Davydd ap Owain, my father, the High King of the Known and United Kingdoms. Father, this is Tiernan. My first courtier... and my friend." Iowerth stands so straight when he says it, his voice quietly serious, quietly so earnest.

     It's a little disconcerting, really. Particularly the similarity combined with that 'presence'. Tiernan closes the door behind the High King, putting on the bolt and standing back as father and son embrace. He watches; he listens. He takes everything in without comment, recording everything.
     The question, of course, is for whom does he record : himself, or his mother? Or for you, with your interests in his heart...
     He approaches slowly, bowing as he is introduced. "Presently I am going by 'Terry'," Tiernan explains without haste, expression grave and calm. "I'm doing my best to catch up with this world and to fit in." No extra words are added as he stands there. The High King must sit first, of course, and then the High King's son; he knows his courtly manners. He has had them drilled into him.

     "I expect that Iowerth has ...explained the precautions and perils." Davydd cocks up his eyebrows as he sips at the whisky. He looks from you to his son -- you have told him, right -- and then back to you -- and you have listened, correct?
     He finishes the whisky with a swallow and sets the glass aside. "Come on, you're stiff as boards. Let's go in the living room and chat. Yeah? I want to hear about this boat." He peers at his son then, grinning as he takes up the pint and waves them to go ahead.
     Fuck protocol...

     Iowerth waits for his father to take his glass, then he gets his, nodding for Tiernan to do the same. "I have explained it, yes. And we have been very discreet." If you only knew. "Magically, that is." He chuckles suddenly, heading over to the living room and sofas. "The boat is a torpedo boat, presently moored at Gabriel's Wharf. We're going to fix it up. Tiernan's a great mechanic... just what I need on a steel ship..."

     Davydd plops down on the sofa, stretching out with a great groan. He lifts his hips, squirreling out his cigarettes and lighter. He lights up without any fanfare, puffing smoke like a proper dragon as he tosses the pack on the table with the lighter stuck in. "That's good. Keep it up. Terry, eh?" He looks over to Tiernan, taking stock, measuring up the boy. "Well, Terry," he grins out smoke, "...when I made the offer to my boys, I didn't say anything about associates."

     Iowerth stiffens as dark green eyes cut a look to him. Duw... if he makes you return... what are we going to do...

     "...But," Davydd rolls out, taking a long pull from the cigarette, "... so long as you keep discreet, and your mother," yes, he knows, "... keeps quiet, I suppose I can allow it under my auspices. I can't keep you off the plane," he knows that and he lets you know that he knows it. "...but when you come under my banner, I have to make sure you're worth the trouble, right?"

     Iowerth sits in a chair. He sits forward, on the edge of his seat even. "We'll be smart," he assures his father. "And... I know I did not tell you, or ask. But truly ... we are both here," he looks to Tiernan, "...to learn, da. We will not cause any attention to be paid to us. We are as mortal as the next guys..."

     He listens, all expression locked away behind his eyes, face kept tranquilly courteous and correct. He doesn't react right away to the notion of having his visa revoked; but nonetheless, there it is, behind his eyes, that moment of panic, of potential loss. His face remains stoic, however, and his voice calm, when he speaks.
     "My mother does not know where my loyalties lie, nor with whom." Tiernan says it evenly, with only a single blink, and he moves cautiously to take a chair for himself. "I can't prove where my loyalties lie to you, sir, save by my actions. I won't waste your time trying to prove or disprove my loyalty to Io."
     Unconsciously, he scratches at his ribs; he isn't even aware of doing so. He glances over at the son, then back to the father, hands settling on his thighs. "As mortal as the next guys, Tiernan tacks on with wry humour, "at least on the surface. I'm trying not to look confused, but I don't get these football teams. It sounds more like invading armies." And that isn't so far off.
     His chin comes up, and he leans back in his seat, exhaling. "If you have something in mind," Tiernan faces the High King, keeping his nervousness under his skin as best he can, "then I'm prepared to face it. I've signed on my loyalty to your son, your majesty. I don't know how to prove it - but I'll do whatever's required of me. That's my job."

     Davydd listens to Tiernan and during his speech, he glances to his own son. You are smart, Iowerth, smarter than I. I do trust your heart, even as I cannot yet trust your youth. Youth is... as youth does. Puffing away at his cigarette, the high king (self-proclaimed and nightly assuring) peers at Tiernan through the fog of his own creation.
     It is a sharp look through a hazy cloud.
     "I think you will blend in well enough. I trust that should you see any of your mother's... people around... you will alert us to that fact. That is how you may prove yourself. And there is ...always... ample opportunity to prove one's worth and word. The world, well... all the worlds...hang by a rather tenuous little string. The secret to how it all holds together, in spite of our selves and actions, is balance. So... I will entertain this," he looks between the two of you. "But only so far as you earn it. Iowerth..."

     Iowerth looks to his father, chin lifting as his mother's does (unconscious of the similarity). "Of course, da..."

     "Discretion," Davydd pointedly offers yet again. "Discretion. Between the two of you, and how you show yourselves to the world. You are educated in this realm, Iowerth, I know you are. Teach him. There are those here that are far older and far more powerful than you have yet imagined. Even with all of your knowledge, even with your imagination. And ... Prince Tiernan," he at last returns his pointed attention to the prince.
     "I cannot say what you have learned or not from your mother's court. But there is a rule of law here, mortal and immortal alike, that rules how things are done and in what manner they are to be allowed, or not. Law is not infinitely flexible. If you were to be here on your mother's terms, there could be little I could say. I would simply let the rule of law hold you to your actions, whatever they may be. But as you are here under my son's banner, which is... in essence...my own, then I am going to expect you to be on your best possible behavior. No discord, no corruption, no magic."
     He looks between you then, to confirm you have both listened and heard him. He will not be repeating himself, so his own look confirms.

     "We have no thoughts to the contrary, father," Iowerth softly confirms. "I hear and understand."

     Tiernan is silent, listening with head slightly bowed, although his gaze remains focused on the High King. He waits through it all; he endures. No comments are made, nor allowed even to leak
through the tight hold he keeps on his mind, from him to his lover...
     Finally, it is his time to speak, and he nods. "I have seen noone whose knee bends to my mother; not even the wrong way." He is stolid, with only one flash of pride which escapes him through his eyes as he bites the inside of his mouth. "I will do my best to prove myself, your majesty." I promise I've left any implements of torture or poisons of discord and corruption back at home in my mother's kingdom. I felt they wouldn't travel well.
     Almost it escapes; through his eyes, it escapes. Unspoken, but thought; how loudly? How overheard? But he is proper. Tiernan of Diamonds stands there, wraith-like in his politeness, a solid piece of post-adolescent youth.
     "I hope to be the cause of no grief or distress for his highness," come the automatic words, "and thank you most humbly for your forbearance..."

Posted by rowan at June 26, 2006 10:37 PM