In silence, the General called forth the joint chiefs of staff, the cavalry and winged units of her majesty's army, and within two hours a plan was enacted and units began to quietly adjourn to the caves beneath the castle. Hippolytus and the striking cavalry armed themselves, and winged griffons slinked within the confines of the caverns.
     It will take several hours for all thirty-thousand troops to get into place, but each battalion has its command. The readiness is all. Satisfied with the progress, General Ramanthus left his elven aides, captains and majors alike, gave a last sugar cube to the stallions that pull his chariot, and headed off for tasks unknown.
     Armor was left behind, and far less bellicose garments were taken up for a stealthy ride into the heart of the village. So many taverns and whorehouses, and so very little time. Leaving his horse at one of the public houses (and no one would dare come near it, white as it is with eyes of fire), the elf lord made his way on foot to the gambling halls and alleys full of bones and wagers.

     He has his moments of solitude on rooftops, crouched with hood pulled to hide the red and gold of his hair. Sunlight colours. Summer colours. They reflect too well in chance moonlight - a thief must stay hidden and unseen.
     From roof to roof, alley to alley he made his way; a circuit of the city which kept him hidden. Whispering in someone's ear here; a note passed there and there. And then, when he was confident that his hidden strings still ran to him and not some other, Gwilym Gwyn Garu slipped away again, and resurfaced - this time visible.
     It's a little like being Norm on Cheers. When you're known, you're known, and even loved, perhaps, by some few. He is more confident of himself, now; more assured. He has taken up his position in the middle of The Lucky Fool, presently raking in chips and coins and jewels alike in a high-stakes, fast-paced game of cards and dice (Emperor's Choice), A bottle and a glass are in front of him, and a cuddly blonde is on his lap. The blonde is drunk. He is sober, but pretending to wildness.
     The wine is drugged. They think I don't know; they don't realize I switched glasses with this little inamorata half an hour ago. The game is rigged. They intend to set me up once I go all in - I may have to fight my way out.
     It's an interesting life...

     The further he gets in this maze of alleys, public houses, bars and dead end tenements, the less like the general he becomes. Footsteps that once sounded with authority now do not sound at all. A body that announced him a figure to be reckoned with all but disappeared in the ensuing shadows. And old habits began to rise to the surface, as if never set down.
     That preternatural hearing of his caught the whispers of your name. The notes passed, hand to hand, mouth to mouth and ear to ear became the tracks of the creature he wished, and needed, to see. Yggsdrasil followed those tracks until they evaporated in fog and subterfuge.
     The Lucky Fool...
     All fools by their very condition are lucky. That is to say they depend on fortune, and fortune tends to take pity on them. That, or they're too foolish to know better or to know the difference...
     As the door opens and another body slips into the crowded Fool, your name bubbles upon a slurring voice. He does not walk up to you, nor does he make so much as a sound as he enters. While not physically invisible, he makes himself unremarkable by going first and foremost to the bar. A coin set down, just enough for a pint. No further instructions given. The tender will pour what he'll grant for that coin.
     But something is passed...
     From his hand to a tavern maid's bounteous cleavage. Yggsdrasil grins and murmurs something in her ear. She blushes, for he is a handsome devil, and good to give a coin. A pint of frothy beer is set before him in a questionable glass. No one will recall him in the haze of their own drunkenness, or how he didn't take a drink, or how he passed from the front to the back of the raucous establishment and back into the alleys.
     But they will recall the near-on cat fight on your lap between the drugged and slurring blonde and the bounteous, apple-cheeked barmaid, who took a folded card from her bosom and passed it to your hand as she gave you a deep and strawberry flavored kiss.
     The note is in Yggsdrasil's writing, runes he's taught you over the past several nights.
     The manse. Important. Now.

     The note is palmed; read quickly and just as quickly tucked back into his cuff in the chaos of two girls tumbling from his lap and onto the floor. Gwilym laughs uproariously, clapping as he rises to his feet. "Well, gentlemen, seems my one prize has run off, so I'm out of the game," he remarks easily. "Lest I lose my other prize and have nothing with which to console myself."
     He rakes coins inwards towards himself, cloak spread to become a bag. A handful of coins and gems are tossed back onto the table. "My thanks for the game, the next few rounds are on me."
     They will be less inclined to attack me, now. They've regained some of their stake, even if not all - and I'm not behaving as if I know what they're up to. They can't single me out this early in the evening, with this distraction, without making the truth of their identity known.
     Instead, they'll invite me in to another game in future in just a moment...
     "You'll come back, of course," a lean and hungry-looking man suggests, grey hair and black eyes seeming to have life of their own. "Maybe in a few nights? We'll have a rematch for you." He smiles - smoothly.
     Ah, there's the shark. The girl will get beaten for her failure, but you know, that's the downside of being a shill. "Oes," Gwilym says easily, "I imagine that I shall." Or not. We'll see. I'm no fool. "For now, though, a very good night to you, gentlemen. Ladies," he adds, casting a wry glance to the cat-fighting women. "Until next time."
     Anticipation makes his feet quicker. He shoulders his cloak-pouch, waving cheerily as he slips out. He is not giving would-be thieves a chance to catch up; once out, he turns down an alley, and slips between buildings.
     They will be after me in less than a minute. Tonight it is the shadow road for me...
     His magic is summoned up, jade eyes narrowed to well-humored intent slits. The shadows pulse once; and he is gone. Spit out not far from your manse; from the shadows of gabled taverns to the shadows of luxurious manors. From one end of the city to another. In less than five minutes, though it is not instantaneous. But he is gone, and then he is there, making his way into your home to wait for you...

     He will not be far behind you. From the alley to the rooftops, he moved, and silently from fire escape to landing and finally at the side of the public house where his horse remained. Taking up the rains, he gave his steed the reins.
     ...And as you slipped into his home to wait for him, you would have heard the sound of approaching hooves, approaching quickly.
     The valets were quiet, officious, but on the move. You were nodded at but none stopped for conversation. One held the door open, bowing for the arrival of his lord, General Ramanthus. Another, you can see, has the armory arranged. There is to be a battle, it is plain enough to see.
     "Thank you, Severus," he murmurs in his tongue to the valet at the door. His words sound ancient, of a different time as well as a different place. "Please see to Odin outside," another soft command in his elven tongue, one that the valet at the door responds to with his immediate leave outdoors.
     And then there is you. Those calm eyes, but keen remain on you a moment, and then he gestures you to follow him to the next room, where another two valets are waiting, armor in hand. They begin to assemble him immediately and the face of the General returns.
     "Your mother has commanded a battle tonight," he begins, no time for endearments or blandishments now. Ramanthus outspreads his arms, his legs also as he stands. "We are raiding the corrupted kingdom of Winter Diamonds. In a matter of hours."

     He follows you in silence, his clothes suitable for alleys and for pubs alike. His shirt is reversible; black and grey on one side, royal blue and gold on the other. Which face he shows determines which side he wears out. You are getting dressed for battle... or for review? He does not know, does not understand.
     But you are explaining. Gwilym's eyes widen, acknowledgment and understanding flaring into them. In more ways than one.
     Mother has decided to take matters into her own hands. I wonder if Io knows. Hell - I wonder if da and papa know.
     He tilts his head to one side, regarding you. You will be going, of course. He knows this. Does not waste your time or his by asking. "What is the prognosis?", Gwilym asks softly. "And is there anything I can do to help?" There is more he would like to say. He is containing himself; bottling it up. Things he cannot or will not say in front of your valets. Arms fold loosely over his chest, and he waits. Endures...

     There is a shared look, one that understands the perturbation of the spirit with such news. There is a soft word that passes between he and his staff. They look to him briefly as they complete the clasping on of the arm and shoulder pieces, but say nothing. Quietly, one after the other they leave and they shut the doors behind them.
     "The prognosis is mixed," he notes, "...but the queen of Winter Diamonds is being dealt with by your mother. A way will be opened between the two kingdoms. I am taking a force of thirty-thousand. I do not know what ...sort of shadows we will encounter, and so we are prepared to face whatever we find. I am confident," he smiles a little. "But I shall be more so if you are able to come with me and put your talents to use."
     He pauses a moment as he begins to equip himself, donning once more that martial skirt, reminiscent of ancient warriors, metal and leather alike, white and silver. "Your mother the queen has confided in me, and me now in you. She has told no one of her plans but me, and I have told only what needs to be known by those who ride with me. I have not asked her permission for you to go." So there you have it. "But I would be foolish to leave such an able, secret weapon behind."
     As he pulls on the breast plane, ornately decorated, and buckles it into place, he looks to you, to see and hear your answer. "We leave in a couple of hours. We will be attacking by dawn."

     "Mother is dealing with her, herself?" Is she mad? She's pregnant! What the devil does she think she is doing? Gwilym's eyes widen again, arms tightening over his chest. The exclamations are bitten back; suppressed. It is hard for him not to be overprotective. "...I suppose she knows what she's doing."
     He tries not to sound too skeptical. Ah, youth. He listens to you more, then nods. Thirty thousand. Sounds about right. And then you extend your own offer - invitation. And again his eyes widen. "You want ... me ... to go with you. And my mother does not know."
     Restating the evident. Unlike him, really. Green eyes look to your grey ones, and Gwilym inhales deeply, then exhales. "Of course I will go with you. I accept your command," he adds carefully, "for the length of this engagement. I am yours to command, General Ramanthus."
     It will not be the first nor last time that a royal prince has served in his mother's military. He has had some training, after all - even if so much of your own efforts to cram learning into his head were met with stubborn resistance. Right now, there is no time for him to entertain doubts or confusion. In truth, he has none.
     Every once in a while, in his world of turning, twisting, shadow-ridden and chaotic paths, things align so that there is but one single clear line for him to take. Now is one of those rare, unique moments. Gwilym's eyes are alight with purpose - and a fine edge of anticipation, devoid of recklessness.
     "What are your orders?"

     "Subjugation, capture, conquest," he answers it briefly, nearly monotone as he begins to seem more like the general and commander that he is. "And ...no...she does not know. But I rather expect she also does not know of your skill, otherwise she might have employed it herself." He smiles a little. "I do not know what we will find, but I suspect you shall be able to handle it. I have every faith in you, my prince."
     And every confidence in you, my lover, his eyes echo.
     "We are making our attack from the caves beneath the palace. The army is converging there now. Elven infantry, centaurian cavalry, even a few of the winged corps I have developed. The griffons might come in handy." He raises a brow to that, and slants a smile. Another secret of his.
     "We are to go there and subjugate the kingdom, specifically the queen as soon as possible. There were ...significant concerns regarding her actions and it is likely there are traps from the outer to the inner perimeter. I am familiar with these sorts of engagements. There are always traps. I am hoping you, Thief King, can trip them for me. Her land is quite corrupt, as her soul. But we will be righting that. In short order."
     He lifts his hand, cupping your cheek for a moment. A gentle touch and something special between you. "I cannot command for you to go beneath my banner. Such might have me discharged even if it were an order I could give. If you go, you must ...volunteer on your own, Gwilym. But ...I should rather you be with me in this hour than here waiting for my return."
     His hand smoothes from your cheek to the nape of your neck. He pulls you into a kiss that is enveloping and wide, wild with the memories of the nights that have passed between you and the emotion that is daily growing. Parting the embrace, the general kisses you upon your forehead.
     "The choice is yours..."

     No... mother does not know of my abilities...
     Only you and I know that...
     He listens, making mental notes behind jaded eyes until finally, he comes to a nod. "I've looked at her kingdom before," Gwilym answers you briefly; brevity is a habit of his only when he is in this place within his mind, the mind of the thief, engaged in a course of action. "There are traps. There are also ways around them."
     You touch him, and he sighs a little, unwitting of his own admission in that touch. He closes his eyes, his hand lifting to touch yours. "I volunteer, of course." He sounds almost surprised that it could be questioned, the words cut off by the kiss. And he molds himself to you, to your armour.
     Damn you, now I am caught in wanting you again, and I can't have you until this is over and done with. As if I could stand to stay behind and worry and wonder, anyway? What am I, a woman?
     This, then, is what it means...
     His hand finds yours again; traps it, clever thief that he is. "I am going with you," Gwilym tells you. It is not confirmation. It is a statement of fact, made on his own, without hesitation; brooking no will but his own. "The queen is corrupt, it's true. But she's also arrogant in her power. She's never thought her own vices and defenses could be used against her. I've spied on her from within her own bedchamber and she never knew of it."
     When I was investigating my brother's lover, there were such things that I did, oes. But you do not need to know this; it is not germane to our topic. We'll touch on that another time. "I volunteer my services, my general."
     Your hand is lifted to his lips; they trail to the middle finger of your left hand, the fingertip kissed, then nipped lightly to send a miniscule shock along your blood to your heart. "Tell me," Gwilym murmurs the words, even as he drops your hand, "how I might best assist you, oes? What would you have me do, how would you have me?"
     For all the entendre in the words, they are meant in their simple form as well as their base. The eyes which focus upon your own glitter with purpose.

     "Prepare yourself, whatever you need to do, whatever that entails, disguise yourself as you see fit and meet me in the caves." He withdraws his touch from you. A squeeze of your hand, and then his hand withdraws as well. They then come together, an audible clap that calls in the valets from the hallway.
     Their steps are hurried. One tends to binding the general's hair while the other commences to armoring him again. "An hour," the general announces, "...no more time than this. I will be at the head of the line. The center chariot," he notes with a kind of blithe smile. "Would you prefer a mount or do you have your own, or do you wish to be on foot, or...some other conveyance that best suits your needs... let Severus know if you need anything, weapons...armor..."
     And when this is done, my love, his thoughts whisper within his own mind, given to the air at-large by the focusing of his eyes on you -- we will return together and celebrate our victory in the confines of our well-used bed.
     "An hour," he repeats, as if to drive that home. But the way he speaks it, upon a breath, you know it is meant for him. He looks straight ahead and at nothing at all, his gaze keen, steel grey. The battle is already taking place in those eyes...

     He hears your thoughts, without even meaning to; reads them in the cant of your head. "An hour," Gwilym agrees. "I will tend to myself, oes. My thanks, for this ... opportunity."
     Turning, he moves to depart; from one patch of shadow to another he will go, to his favourite steed. He will strap on sword and armour alike - not for the heat of battle, his, but a spy's armour, meant for close quarters combat, for speed and seduction of stealth. Pieces stolen from the private collections of those who have thought that they rule the cities' underworlds.
     He will go, and then direct himself to his mother's palace; to the caverns far below. A note left behind for his brother... never to be read should he live. Just in case.
     What does a thief do, if not attempt to prepare for all eventualities?
     Moment by moment, an hour will slide by. And then it will be into battle...

Posted by rowan at July 10, 2006 12:18 AM