On the fringes of your mother's kingdom, in what are the suburbs of her urban creation, sit the promenades, gardens and grand houses of the privileged and the mighty. There, the generals of her armies live, along with diplomats, semi-permanent emissaries, dignitaries and the wealthy merchant class.
     The houses are not crammed in together like the brownstones of the village, and nothing like the tenements of the lower quarters, but sit upon the rolling hills and overlooking the coastline, each with at least an acre of land. Stone walls and manicured maze-like hedges separate the properties from one another, and carriages go to and fro, carrying each to his or her business throughout the day -- and sometimes evening.
     The mansion of General Ramanthus is as glorious as any of the others. The approach is heavily wooded, leading up the hillside to the crest, where the house sits overlooking the ocean below. The General wished clear (very) lines of sight, and he has among all the dignitaries one of the best positions. It's certainly strategic.
     The house itself is perfectly square, with four rising turrets that seem largely decorative but are certainly defensible. It is constructed of the stone of these very cliffs, a kind of honeyed white that gleams in the sun. A winding drive of smoothened riverstones lines the way from the street to the house, ending at the steps that lead to the front entrance. There, two great doors stand ready, unguarded to the naked eye...
     During what is the middle of the afternoon, there is not much activity on these suburb streets. Everyone is either at lunch, in meetings, in between meetings or taking afternoon slumbers before the next round of business (or pleasure as the case may be). The village on the other hand is quite busy (even rowdy) already...

     What am I doing here?
     What am I going to say to him, exactly?
     Gwilym Gwyn Garu has no idea; he is of multiple minds. Which is rather his problem, of late, isn't it? "My mind is fragmenting, breaking apart. Different urges, different needs, all at once and all conflicting," he sings under his breath, as if it were a song written by his father. It could be sung by his mother, duw knows. She'd do it justice, more ways than one.
     It isn't that he has no illusions. But he lives among illusions, becomes one thing from another, and then another. He is his grandfather's grandson all over again.
     He's riding slowly on a stallion given him for his birthday three years ago, gaze sliding across the empty streets. "Many things have I been," Gwilym quotes softly, "since I came to this form..." What am I now, and what am I now becoming...
     He reaches the estate, sliding from his horse. He has not dressed in particularly princely garb - not underdressed, but this is not a visit of state. Fawn trousers, black boots, a white shirt under a black riding jacket edged with red, his hair catching the light and glittering with blood and gold. What better glitter for a thief than that? The horse is led forward, looking around as his rider moves. What place is this...
     A hand rakes back through his hair, and he heads towards those great doors. The horse is tied to the branch of a tree, left to graze if it wills or not. Gwilym lifts a hand to knock - he is not here officially. But he is not here so unofficially as to try to break in, temptation though the idea presents.
     "Anyone home? A student calling..."

     It is not the general who answers the call, of course, nor would one simply expect him to be. But the doors do indeed open, slowly and gracefully. The servant who does so recognizes you as the son of the queen and bows, stepping aside to let you enter.
     "Your Highness," he says, the elf in his silver kaftan and white leggings does. He matches the silver and marble flooring set in the foyer. His hair is long but is pulled and plaited behind him. "I will show you to the General. Please follow me."
     He closes the door softly behind you and steps along a white runner carpet from the front door to a nearby staircase. The interior of the manse is quite orderly on the surface, perhaps even a touch spartan. But your keen eyes will pick up details, very rich and subtle details of decor and furnishing. The touches are deliberate, even in some parts decadent -- there is a painting of rich and vibrant colors upon one wall, which stands out amid so much white. It is a painting of a elven youths gathering in a fruited grove and seems reminiscent of Waterhouse or Rosetti, if you were acquainted with such artists.
     The stairs are curved and lead between the turrets (where guards are stationed) and the main body of the residence itself. The servant leads you silently up three flights to a wide hall. The hall's floor is in checkered silver-blue and white, there is one great arched window at the end of the hall and paintings of famous elven warriors decorate the walls -- the artist's hand quite talented.
     "I will let him know you are here, Your Highness. Please, enjoy the sitting room," he says as he opens the door. "There will be food and drink, whatever you should like," it is so matter-of-factly put. Of course, whatever you wish shall materialize. "He will not be long..."

     "Thank you." Gwilym says it politely, with an inwards awkwardness. He is immediately again the schoolboy, the mischief-maker, wanting to pull horrible faces at the butler behind his back. He's a grown-up now; he's not supposed to, right? The art does distract him, and gets grudging appreciation. When one's a thief, one learns to appreciate the finer things - especially when one's not a thief due to poverty...
     He follows, suppressing a long-legged stride to one more decorous. But it does not change that he feels out of place, and absently he tugs at the back of his collar. It is shrinking by the moment, he just knows it. The only thing that would be worse would be if he had to wear a tie.
     "Thank you," Gwilym says aloud again, glancing to the servant. Jade green eyes focus on being polite; why, it isn't until the man turns and the door closes that he sticks out his tongue with a contorted expression. Then, with a groan, he moves to drop into a chair, slumping back and down with arms sprawled on the chair's arms.
     What the devil am I doing...

     The sitting room is a private sitting room, as befits your station and rank. It is filled with military memorabilia, a full suit of armor on display, soft sofas in apposition to the strong adamantine steel and mithril, and, yes, there is food and drink waiting should you care.
     One part of the sitting room is a library, it appears, and perhaps an office. There are maps out on the table, both rolled and unrolled. The windows, and there are many, are currently draped, the view of the sea shut out for now in trade for a cooler chamber, and one immediately more private.
     It is a few moments before you hear any movement at all. Actually, it ends up being closer to fifteen minutes as far as you can tell before you hear steps coming down the hall, not in the direction of where the servant just wandered off but from the library side of the chamber. The steps are measured but sure of themselves and their path.
     Ramanthus is tall as most elves of his station are, but he has a breadth that is uncommon among his people. It radiates power, strength and confidence -- even if that were not already apparent in his countenance. Such a countenance. It is borne by a face that is beautiful more than handsome, with a strong jaw and very defined features. His eyes are grey with shards of silver, their gaze goes right to the heart of anything he looks at. And now, just now, his long platinum hair is unbound, covering his broad shoulders and falling to the small of his back.
     He is closed in white leggings of a comfortable fit, neither too close nor too full. Over this is a kaftan robe of elven silk, the white so white it may as well be silver. It is belted at the waist. Beneath it, a shirt of lightweight knit, seeming no thicker than a spiderweb.
     "Prince Gwilym," the General says, offering you a smile at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, his expression are openly curious. He was not expecting to see you. "I apologize for the wait. What may I do for you..."

     He unfolds to his feet, but not right away; it's a three-beat moment before he stands up. It's hard to be so rock and roll in an elven world. Gwilym resists the urge to fuck with his hair. It's probably a bit ruffled, but then, isn't it always? The General is regarded as he enters, and there's a moment taken before he speaks, biting his lower lip to stay silent.
     He is looking at you from an entirely different perspective, now, with what he knows of and from his brother. And he is having to suddenly keep from channeling some spirit of his grandfather - that particular spirit which hooks the lower parts of his brain directly to his mouth.
     "Actually," Gwilym shrugs his shoulders a little, "I figured I'd come to see you for a few different reasons, none of which I'm entirely sure how to directly bring up." It's blunt, lacking in subtlety. His subtleties seem to have gone right out the window, and he isn't sure why; nor has he the time to study the situation. Those eyes of jade lift, taking you in - mental notes are being made on some level, far behind that direct exterior. And he is struggling to keep the challenge from his face and voice. "I suppose I should start by mentioning my brother."

     He has a commander's face -- better said, he has a commander's eye and a way of absorbing information without giving his entire self away. He's quite the poker player. As you mention your brother the prince, his student, General Ramanthus takes a seat across from you. The mention gets a slight quirk of an eyebrow.
     Interesting...
     Or perhaps that quirk was for your directness -- something a general, even elven, can appreciate. He smiles a little. "Indeed? I am at your leisure, your highness. Is this on his account or for your own?" He inclines his head and studies you past the steepling of long fingers.
     The general wears no ring, nor any other adornments other than himself, really. "Whatever it is, please... I like the direct approach." The smile spreads a bit. "Speak freely. Whatever you say will be held in utmost confidence."
     And he is apparently accustomed to keeping secrets.

     He sits down again, his uneasiness only somewhat suppressed; it is undoubtedly visible to you, but then, he has always had trouble sitting still in your presence. He was always the one looking out the window - the one sneaking off, not bothering to do his assignments because they bored him. The one who needed to apply himself, and didn't. And here he is now...
     "Duw, not his." Jade eyes widen. "He'd kill me if I f- that is, if I tried that. He can fight his own battles, I don't back him up this directly." Which implies a battle is to be fought - or is being fought. Gwilym stands up again, pacing around to behind the chair, putting both hands on its back and leaning forward with a slow exhale. As jumpy as a cat on a hot stove, he seems.
     "I'm sure it'd be held in confidence, General Ramanthus." This is insane... I feel as if I'm back in the classroom, fuck if I know why. Inside his skin, he squirms, doing his best not to show it. Colour heats his face - so like his father's and grandfather's, that - and the prince ducks his head down and then back up. "My brother's confided in me about you and himself. I know about it."
     There's a flash to his eyes - mixed emotions, that. The edge of suspicion, as when he found out about Tiernan. That thread of betrayal. Accusation. Discomfort, even hurt. The colours of chaos roil in his eyes with all that and more, and he has to look away. "I know," Gwilym repeats, voice steady even if his emotions are not, "about your relationship with my brother."

     There is an exhale, a softening of his features. Ramanthus also rises, but slowly. "Prince Gwilym," he says evenly, quietly. It is not to keep it confidential -- though there is that need as well -- but in consideration for your feelings, and in your discovery.
     "While I can certainly understand your...upset at such news, I hope you may be comforted that your brother and I are not in a relationship presently, certainly not romantic. I was his mentor on a physical path, this is true. Once he made his desires known to me." Ramanthus stands before you. He is your servant, after all. "In safety and anonymity, I...assisted him through his questions, his discovery, his education. As I have mentored others in the past."
     He pauses then, looking to you, and in silence studying you once more. "I did not instruct you on such matters, as it did not seem to interest you. No more than military strategy through time," he smiles in the memories of that, you in his classroom. "For your anger, I can only offer my regrets. I hope you will be able to accept them."

     "No," Gwilym retorts, "I'm well aware you two aren't in a relationship. I got stuck under a bed for six fucking hours - and I do mean fucking - while he and his current lover went at it!" His face flushes, passion rising and all holds are off his tongue. It's a pure Davydd moment, recklessness brought on by that lack of balance from which he's suffering. He stands stiffly, hands balled into fists, chin raised as pugnaciously as ever his mother did.
     A deep breath is taken; held. Exhaled slowly as he tries to force reactions down. Don't ask him what he was doing under that bed. "Look," he says finally, looking at you and then away again; it is difficult to look at you, right now. "What you two did ... Logic tells me it's none of my business. Da would tell me it's none of my business. But he's my brother."
     He seems to think that isn't clear, because he jams his fists into his armpits, pacing a bit away from you - putting distance between you and himself. "My twin," Gwilym clarifies. He glances at you, now, having put a little distance between you. "And no, I wasn't interested in being taught how to fuck. I taught myself, that." He swats a hand irritably at the air. "Never mind."

     He watches as you go about your motions, some desperate, some angry, some confused, some irritated, some humorous. He gives you the space you seek, turning to give you a bit more as he heads to the sofa. He sits upon an arm of it, hands interlaced.
     "It is ... more difficult when one is ... seeking a relationship, even if it is simply carnal, with the same gender. It is a dangerous practice, gauging interest, pursuing, let alone enjoying. When he made his feelings known to me, I felt it was my duty to show him as much as I could. One for his safety, and... the rest simply for ...pleasure's sake. He had not yet had any experience. I was a safe choice."
     Six hours. Ramanthus holds back a grin, choosing instead to smirk and raise both eyebrows to keep that smirk from growing any wider. "It is... your brother's business. He has shared it with you. As twins, there is little you likely do not share. But that is my assumption. You... were surprised by this... desire of his? And it has little to do with ...fucking," he chooses your word, arcane as it is. You can see he doesn't much like the word. "Coitus, whatever you wish to call it. It isn't simply the physical one-two-three like the steps of a dance. Not simply an itch to be scratched but an experience, my prince."
     He releases a breath, rising once more. He pours a drink. "Would you like something? I am ...happy to answer any question you might have about myself and your brother. As I said, it was not an emotional arrangement. I was ... someone he trusted, admired I think. And certainly a safe choice for experimentation."

     There are more reasons than may be externally evident for his putting distance between himself and you. He is conflicted, to be sure; conflicted and uncertain, that chaos rising as an ocean. In the past, as children, his brother was his balance. Now he is trying to be his own balance.
     He is very bad at it.
     "When my brother informs me at our mother's earthly wedding that he generally prefers the company of men," Gwilym enunciates with great care, "oes - it catches me by surprise." His head turns sharply, and he watches you as you rise. He does not immediately reply.
     "I need a drink. If I'm going to talk to you - I bloody well should have gotten drunk first." This is difficult for him. Gwilym paces to one of the other seats, dropping into it as if felled by an axe. "You make it sound pretty," he makes a slight face, "but if it's not an itch to be scratched, what the hell is it? I know what women want." Arrogance; but it is true. He has had no shortage of women. "You can't talk to most women you're not related to. And fine; you're not in love with my brother. Just as well, he's otherwise engaged. Everyone is looking to connect."

     "Yes, my prince," he quietly confirms, "...everyone is seeking a connection. To a thing, to a person, to many persons should it come to it." He smiles a little to your request for a drink and rises from the sofa, crossing to the desk in the library portion of the chamber. He removes a bottle, unmarked, and pours two glasses of silvery liquid, somewhat reminiscent of vodka.
     As he brings it to you, however, you know it is not vodka. It is a kind of brandy, the glass wide-bodied and the pour generous. "I know this is difficult," he murmurs. The liquor smells strong. It smells of rosemary, lavender and licorice. And potent. It smells quite potent.
     Suddenly, Ramanthus chuckles. It is a deep sound, a quiet sound, like wind in trees, like the way the earth itself my chuckle. "It is not...pretty. That is not how I would describe it." He pauses in thought, some distance between himself and you again. He lets you determine how far. "An itch to be scratched is ...surface...momentary. But that is only one part, the most basic, guttural part, where it is as much a reaction to living as...breathing or walking. Incidental. But when done... deliberately... with slowness, allowing yourself to open up to another, even if only ajar," he smiles to you, knowing your secretive nature, "...the experience is much deeper. It goes beyond the simple fly-swatting copulation. Take your time... explore the flesh, the senses and through those things, you come to know yourself."
     "And... as for women... there may be some at some point in your life with whom you can talk but it is true, being a man, it is easier to understand men. To feel that camaraderie, that companionship that women cannot offer, no matter how much they try. It is ... a gateway to that understanding... of what you like, of what you need, of who you are..."
     Ramanthus sips at the liquor from his wide-bodied glass. He looks at you. "Women ultimately want the same things that men want... though in different ways. Companionship, love, family. You are in a different situation, being that you have a political component that most others do not. But I trust you are an excellent judge of character."
     He looks into his glass a moment, and then those grey eyes return to you. "I am happy to hear of your brother. You are upset... that this has not yet happened for you?"

     He accepts the glass, eyelids lowering as he looks to its contents - rather than to you, rather than give up that diversion. The glass is lifted, vapors waved upwards to his nose as he inhales. He exhales from between parted lips, and for a moment - only a moment - he is relaxed. The contents slide around the inside of the glass as he takes a swallow, all his energy focused on it.
     For a moment, chaos recedes upon that sip. The turbulent waters, stilled not by oil but by brandy.
     You talk, and he listens, tongue held by the liqueur. It is probably the closest that you have had his attention ever, without his wiggling impatience in the classroom, apple-green gaze fixed upon your face as unblinkingly as any cat has ever watched a mouse. Some of it, he agrees with, and some...
     "Bah, opening up." Gwilym snorts, the spell almost broken as he blinks, expression suddenly given to brooding. "There's nothing to open. What, should I tell all my secrets to someone? What good will that do me? Who can people such as he and I trust? Companionship ... is ... nice, but I can live without it if I have to."
     That is his belief, for all that underneath the facade, he knows he is wrong. Cuchulain battles the sea in his madness, but beneath, knows that his enemy is himself. "I can sum up most within minutes. Most people are simple creatures."
     And therein lies much of the problem. He is not simple; far from it. Complex his nature; complex his passions. Who can match, let alone exceed him? Few whom he has met; few who could understand him. His gaze drops to his glass as if forced there, at your question, and for a moment, he doesn't answer. Truth, half-truth, lie, non-answer?
     "Oes," Gwilym says suddenly, voice like a whipcrack, and he tenses around the pit of his being, unconsciously defensive. "In some ways, I am. I am happy for him," his glance slides across you, then rapidly away, "but - I am alone."

     "I did not say confess your entire person," the elf lord and general smiles, his mouth moving to the side in one corner. "In fact, it has little to do with what you say, my prince. Keep your secrets - guard them closely, as well you should - but ... if you seek a connection you will have to let down some of those shields." He looks at you, his thumb and forefinger pressing his lower lip for a moment of thought. "You are going to have to show some vulnerability. One cannot be invincible and connect with others... or love."
     As you speak of being alone, there follows a knowing, an understanding, and a sympathetic look. You speak of solitude. As has your brother and every prince that has come before you. Ramanthus lowers his glass and he closes the distance between you, only by inches perhaps. "My prince, you are not alone." And, again, closer - he wanders as he speaks, his steps slow and measured, meandering. "Only as you keep yourself from others, do you think you are isolated. What you fear most, you have to give yourself to, or you will remain in place forever. But the choice and the power is yours." Finally he stands before you. He chimes the glasses together as if to mark his point. "There are hands for you to take, mouths to kiss, and hearts to hold. Do not be afraid. Trust yourself, hmm? Trust yourself, my prince, that you are smart, strong, and in your case sneaky enough to handle whatever happens next."
     There is indeed great sympathy there. Perhaps he has felt the same in his own youth, perhaps even now, who can say. "The power to change your self-imposed isolation is yours to take, yours to give, yours to lower. There is no reason to be afraid of it. Of the future. Besides," he smiles a little, "...the future is coming whether you're afraid of it or not, yes? And I know you are intelligent, you are strong, and you are certainly slippery and quick," he chuckles. "To have escaped my classes on more than a few occasions. Give yourself," Ramanthus whispers, as if confiding this only to you, as if he has told no one else to do such before. "..and you will find yourself returned better than before."
     He touches his glass to your glass again and lifts the wide-bodied snifter for a drink. The rosemary and lavender liqueur is both sweet and edged, just as life itself. "My lord," he murmurs, "... I am your servant...and your friend. I have watched you turn from impetuous boy to thoughtful man. Yes," he grins, "...thoughtful, even as you wish to be seen otherwise. I am here for you." And see... you have already begun to loosen that stranglehold on yourself with him. You've told him already more than you've said to any other. "And as trusted servant, I say again... I implore... do not close your heart and soul to protect it or you yourself shall break it."

     Vulnerability. He stares at you as if you've gone mad. He has a thousand and one ways of defending his heart, from bluff amiability to glowering rage to hyperactive glee. Not one of them is calculated to show the truth of his soul.
     You move, and his gaze immediately drops, flickers, taking in where you are going, what you are doing. He does not have his brother's mind for naval strategy, perhaps; but when it comes to up close and personal, his strategy, his defenses are good. That's part of the problem.
     "I'd have to trust people to let them get that close," Gwilym rattles it off, colour rising in his face, "and that seems to me a bad move, oes? Easier to slip a knife in after six nights than after one. I've already seen that everyone's out for themselves." Mistrustful apple green eyes, but the colour of apples, not of jade. They widen; he is having difficulty holding his ground right now, rather than falling back a pace. Some ways like his grandfather. Some ways like his mother.
     Except his mother has always thrown herself headlong into love, longing for love, clinging to it where she's found it. Gwi is not so fortunate; somewhere, a shard of glass is buried where his heart around it pulses. "...I am not looking for servants."
     The words are pulled from him grudgingly, gaze dropped to his glass, then returning to your face. His shoulders are tensed. It is taking a considerable effort by a considerable will to remain; the energy is being expended, the chaos in his eyes being beaten back by such strength, with such difficulty. "I have lived my life surrounded by servants. Why do you think I ran off in the first place? Except that didn't work, did it." Where he went, he conquered. And a conqueror is not equal to those whom he conquers, no matter how hard he tries to pretend.
     Gwilym takes a deep, sudden breath, letting it out. The glass is held tightly, passed from one hand to the other; tightly, tight enough that it might well break. He makes a sudden face at you, the face he made at your butler's back, a face you've no doubt caught him at before. "There's few that'd call me thoughtful."

     "That's just what you want them to think," Ramanthus confirms quietly. "Each person you have met, you have controlled to some extent. You have made yourself a thousand masks. It is no wonder then, is it?" He looks to you, tall as he is -- to you and not down at you, though he is taller than you are. "Is it any wonder, Gwilym," using the familiar, "... that you do not know which one is the real one?"
     Grey eyes hold the apple ones for a moment. He inclines his head and takes his drink, pacing now several steps away. "Even you have seen that your brother is not your equal. But you cannot give others masks to wear for themselves, Gwilym. Their identities are their own to sort out, even as you have yours. And that is the greater issue for you, beyond trust, beyond vulnerability. It is identity. Who you are, who you wish to be..."
     Ramanthus finishes his rosemary and lavender liqueur, pouring himself another. "Your ways are in secret, everything is subterfuge or superficial. Even as I am speaking now, I am speaking to what I believe I see. You may in fact not feel this is the case at all. But then," a little smile to you, "...which Gwilym Gwyn Garu am I speaking to? You change personalities and masks faster than most eyes can see. It is like you are cheating at cards... one, two, three aces from your sleeve..."
     He offers the bottle to you, a tip of it to ask silently: do you care for another? "Running never works. Sometimes a change of venue can be helpful. But running?" Platinum hair shifts silvery as he shakes his head slightly. "Never running. Your brother's issues are altogether different. So prone and capable of Destruction, he seeks anchors in the rocky seas of his self. You? Completely different. Sleight of hand, hide the heart. You have the concerns and the questions of a master spy. The Thief King. Your brother is the drowning waters that fill the lungs. He daily seeks to avoid drowning. Himself. Others. You..." He narrows his eyes in studying you. "I believe you are in danger of making yourself a figment of everyone's imagination. Including your own. You do not feel... real. Substantial. But both you and your brother require balance. As everything. As I do."
     Ramanthus smiles at that. "I, too, struggle with being a ... figment. A shimmering moment," his hand makes a gesture, "...too soon gone. Like a moment of sunlight before it is covered in clouds, gone as if it had never existed. I am no thief king like you, no trickster of the gods, no rebirth of Loki or master of tripped locks. My figments are different, and yet... if I do not serve in Honor, I should disappear. So, I am my activity. War. Battle. Planning. Honor. Chivalry. I would cease to exist without it all."
     "Balance," Ramanthus says softly. "What is the balancing component of ever shifting walls? Of shadows? Who would be the other side of your coin, if you were a coin?" Would it be Ramanthus and his sunlight, shimmering, momentary. Shifting as swiftly as your own? "You must trust yourself. Trusting others, for you? Who knows if that will ever be possible. But... trust in yourself, your abilities, Gwilym, and you will find the peace you seek..."

     Trapped. He stares at you with widened eyes. "What do you mean, my brother is not my equal?" He is saying it as a way of trying to find distance, rather than just to ask the question. While the answer is of interest to him, it is more that it buys him time - time to think. Time to try to plan his escape. He, the master thief; his disguises so suddenly useless. Of what good is a disguise if it's known to all that it's a disguise?
     His glass is lifted, held out to you, and his grasp has to ease a bit as he does so; good thing for the glass. Good thing for his hand. The social gesture of accepting another drink brings about other minute changes, a semblance of relaxation for a moment, pushing that panic away, keeping it from turning into aggression or flight. "I have been in London." Gwilym's voice is quieter, now. "It has ... gotten worse," there is tacit admission in that, "since I went. But it ... did not start in depth until mother's wedding." The earthly wedding. Io's confession, which led to such shock, panic, anger, denial, and acceptance.
     But only acceptance of the one, not the other. And where two are connected...
     "How is it," he wonders abruptly, focused a moment on your face, "that you see this? Why do you see it?" There are cracks forming; do you see that? One hand scrubs blunted nails against his thigh absently, the outwards physical manifestation of his struggle. "Why would you want to?" He bites his tongue, swallowing hard, a flush rising even to his ears. He blinks, looks away, jaw tensed. Things once taken out of the box to be examined don't go back in again so easily. "I..." And he looks back at you. Words do not come. He does not know what to say - does not know how to say it, how to push past the chaos that again rises in his eyes, the tumult of different voices and directions. Mired in confusion, the prince simply looks at you, until finally he can feel his face relax.
     "I want things. But I don't know what things."

     "I am old," he explains as he returns to you, "...and I listen." He refreshes your glass with the clear but fragrant liquid. "I listen to what you say, but that is not as important as how you say it and how you move when you speak." Ramanthus looks to you. "And why shouldn't I be interested? You are a fascinating young man, despite your dislike of my lectures. I watch, I look, I hear, and am amazed."
     He is not simply telling you this to soothe you. You see it pass across his expression. He is fascinated. And he is amazed by you.
     "And I understand issues of identity, having them myself. It is difficult to be both living being and concept of a living being." His mouth twitches at that. "A dream and a reminder. You ... I think... you understand what I mean. You are seen but never seen. Heard, never understood by those who simply pass by your existence. They are like coats hanging in a closet, brushed by your hands as you move by. Nothing more." He sets the bottle down nearby, once more taking up a perch on the arm of the sofa.
     "We all want things, Gwilym. Every atom wants of another atom, hmm? That is the very nature of attraction." He is so even, where you are so... not. He calm, where you are dynamic. He is clear and silvery white where you are nature's shadows. Your opposite it seems in every way. "The material plane," he says after a thoughtful moment. He shakes his head. "You aren't meant to be there. It is too... solid for you. Confining," he says with a more intensely understanding look, those eyes narrowing upon the word. "You need the mutability of this world. If you are not constantly changing, I should imagine you would become most unhappy. Trapped," he adds with a slow nodding of his head.
     "You cannot capture sunlight in a bottle, Peter Pan never did catch his shadow, and you cannot place creatures such as we in containers such as that." Ramanthus shakes his head. "I would not presume to tell you what to do, Gwilym. But I would advise you to return to the astral, return here... where you may stretch out, shift, alter... without being pulled so by that gravity."
     He continues to listen, he listens as you speak, even as you do not speak. "Your brother removed a mask. I am sure that was disconcerting. You had not planned it, did not foresee it. You do not like being caught off-guard." He smiles to you once more. "I can see that. But... as I said, you cannot expect your brother to wear the mask you provided. He has his own, to be sure. As for the...not your equal. He is not. Your mutability, your dynamism, your face of a thousand masks -- that is not his nature nor can it ever be. His mind is quick, yours is quicker I think. He is oceanic. He can absorb things quite nearly instantaneously. But you, you of the ever-changing reality and faces, you see more, faster than he does. You have to, don't you. You have to see the potential several steps before the fact. He sees the fact, and immediately understands all of its consequences and complications. That he does very well. He is brilliant. As are you, Gwilym. Completely, and utterly differently."

     What you say is taken multiple ways (as how could it be any different), with his expression shifting through rapid transitions in response. He so hates to be told what he should do; there is that stubbornness. Disbelief. Caution. Something of hope - he has not been adjusting well to this, to his new duties, to the sheer and overwhelming newness of it all. And, as you say - to that gravity, of trying to be one thing, one person, one being. To being simply and only human, with no magic permitted to his use, when he is such a conduit for magic.
     That you have seen this, without even knowing of the mark upon his back...
     Something else flares in those green eyes, too : relief. Do you see it? For all the panic and suspicion at his unmasking, there is that relief, too. You have only penetrated a little ways - but in doing so, there are burdens that he can surrender. Truths which he can speak of. Which he would have had to remain silent on, perhaps forever, had you not.
     "My brother is happy," Gwilym says simply, "and I want his happiness. He is not happy with me, because he knows I'm not. He wants me to be happy as well, and he has come close to making great mistakes in that. I can't let him do that to himself." No matter how much it hurts me, Io. You are my brother. Noone has ever been as close to me as you; noone can get closer. But you are not my balance anymore; in that world, you are happier than I have ever seen you here. I, on contrast, it drives mad.
     Strange, how standing here I feel saner than I've felt in two years, but at the same time as if I'm caught between two warring gangs with the Guard hot on my tail...
     "Can I stay here?" It's asked abruptly, suddenly, and the colour rises into his face again, in a hurry. "I mean... here. With you."
     He watches you, not furtively, but with something of pride and fear in his expression. What will you read into what he says. What will you do. Will you reject him? His heart is as on his sleeve as it has ever been - but there are still a thousand and one ways that what he has said might be taken. There are other things he wants to say, but the words are trapped : questions about himself. About you. About what you say. About how you see him.
     But oh, he is drawn in by you, whether or not you are trying. He lets the words hang there, until they are well beyond the point of recall. The glass is in his hand, forgotten. Panic becomes patience as you watch, expression almost calm save for that questioning faint almost-pout to his mouth (inherited from his mother, that), paired with a slight tightness at the corners of his eyes which is purely his grandfather. But he has put aside family in asking this. He has put aside some of his layers. And the panic of the question begins again to rise in his eyes.

     If he sees it -- and it is a safe assumption -- he does not reveal that he sees it, for that would be giving one of your secrets away, would it not? There is no obvious grin, no I Told You So Smile. You ask, even as you fear the question, and he answers calmly.
     "Of course, Gwilym. You may stay with me as long as it pleases you to do so. None will know, none need to know. You may come and go as you please and in the manner that best suits you." He smiles now, however slightly. "I trust that you know how to get out of any house better than any man living."
     Standing near you again, he places his hand upon your shoulder. "I will alert my staff only that you are to be treated as the prince when you are here, as befits your station. They will neither question you, nor reveal your presence. Freedom... that is what you must have, yes? Always." He smiles in his nodding understanding.
     Yes, he knows...
     "Always," Ramanthus repeats, his hand moving to brush your cheek, as if giving a benediction. He withdraws his hand, those long fingers so suitable for music but finding their keys in battle instead. Callused by swords of adamantine, yet they remain gentle. Ephemeral. And after a moment, it is as if you were never touched at all. His presence, as yours, comes and goes so quickly.
     His gaze, however, always remains, always seems so fastened, so present. It confirms his existence, it seems. "When you allow yourself the freedom you crave, I think you will be happy too. Happiness... that is not your brother's territory alone, yes?" He smiles again, Ramanthus does. And in the quiet of understanding that exists between you, you find that you are not alone.

     Energy moves through him at your touch, heat in his stomach, moving through his chest (through his groin, too) and expressing itself in the renewed coloration in his face. Your hand is light on his shoulder, but it is to him weighty. How heavy it must feel, the hand of the guardian upon the shoulder of the thief; that expectation of freedom fleeing.
     "Not always." His voice sounds strange to his own ears. "There is a time and a place for everything," Gwilym manages to force the words out; he isn't sure where they're coming from. "Freedom and chains both are needed at different times. Noone appreciates freedom until they've been bound."
     You touch his face, and there is that uncertainty, the tumult of chaos in his eyes, in his breast as his gaze flickers to follow your hand. He is made dizzy by this; the blood rushing back and forth in his system, the light that penetrates through the cracks in his defenses nearly overwhelming him. "I have a question, though." He swallows, then looks up, a darting gaze that finds and locks onto your own.
     "Are you doing this out of duty?"

     "No," comes the answer again calmly. "You have already said you have no need of servants. I do this because I care for you. I wish you to succeed, to be happy. I find you quite fascinating, Gwilym. I am not obligated to allow you to stay. This is my personal residence, not my official residence."
     It is a secret of his own that he gives you. He shares it with you. You may yet find out that it is held in deed under a completely different name, written in runes Yggsdrasil. Spoken softly as Ash.
     Those grey eyes flit over your face, take note of your blushing - how could he miss it with such focused attention? - and he withdraws his touch completely. "Duality, in all things. We cannot know one thing without knowing its partner. Darkness, Light. Good, Evil. Despair, Love. Freedom, Captivity." He nods. Yes, you do know, don't you.
     "Would you like to see the chambers... perhaps take your rest and eat something? I would be happy to show you the manse. I think you will find it to your liking, Gwilym."

     The answer you give him makes him nod fractionally in answer. Some of the turbulence ebbs; some, but not all. He is overwhelmed, without quite knowing why. It is almost on his tongue to question you - there are questions which arise, to each thing you say, but to begin to speak them would be to lose control. To give too much away. And in giving away the questions, he would end up shouting them at you, destroying any hope of peace.
     He holds himself so tightly in check. Can you not see the muscles of his self control straining?
     "Show me," Gwilym manages to say. He makes an abortive motion towards you, then looks to the side. But he does not step away. Where Iowerth is in danger of drowning, his brother is in danger of combusting. It makes perfect sense. He is catching fire, almost visibly.

     Fire and Water. Again, duality...
     Ramanthus does not seem surprised by this. He does seem rather difficult to surprise, or if he is he never gives it away. A general's 'poker face' perhaps. You start for him - you move and are compelled to do so (fire cannot sit still in essence, though it can be momentarily contained) by your nature. He is there, he does not move back. In fact, there is again that look of understanding.
     Rather than turn and usher you out for you to explode, he remains standing with you for a moment. Will touching you create a roman candle? The question flickers on his eyes a moment. The next moment finds his hand landing again, lightly as to be the figment of a touch. "Discovery is half the fun of it," he whispers. There is a smile there for you. Do not rush. Go slowly, prince.
     His arm moves away again and he opens that arm widely, gesturing you to walk with him. "I will show you the basics, how to get where you wish to be... the kitchens," he grins now. "Your chamber. The bar. The rest... I will let you find on your own, Gwilym."

Posted by rowan at July 04, 2006 04:21 PM