It has almost been a temptation to ask you to meet me on the material plane, brawd. Back at the apartment over Black Jack Davy's. But just as our mother now is reluctant to come here, so I am reluctant to go there; the noise I have in my head, I do not know if it will come back or not. And with you...
     With you, now most of all, I need my head to be clear...
     You received the invitation not long after your ship returned to port. A scrap of crumpled paper, dropped with a sprig of flowering blackberry, green berries on the vine, was dropped into your lap by a crow that swooped down to land not far from you. It stood on one foot, hopping with elegant balance as it turned one eye onto you, that handsome black head turned first one way and then the other. When it was sure that the note had landed properly and been received, off it flew again; an incident so brief as to be unremarkable.
     The note, unfolded, was simple. Meet me in the centre of all things. On the back, Come alone. Gwilym even resisted the urge to make the note in those runes which he now knows, which he suspects you now know as well...
     You remember that center point, don't you? The spiraling alleys, with his hidden apartment. The doors which he wants to have open, open onto it. He wants to talk to you in the utmost privacy. When he goes there, none can find it if he does not wish it.
     None, perhaps, but you...
     But he wants you to find him. The paths will be open. The doors, when you choose, will open your way. It only remains to be seen - will you accept his invitation - and if so, will you be happy to see him?

     He has been expecting a message, so when one was finally delivered by the handsome blackbird, Captain Draig was quick to receive it. The blackberries are too young to eat, sadly, but maybe he will find some along his way. His coat on his back, his sword at his side -- both finally fitting him -- Iowerth strode from his deck perch to below deck, to the lover tucked away there so safely. A goodbye kiss was given, a short absence expected, but promises given -- easy to give as they are -- to return.
     I remember the center point. I flew there last time, as I recall. But the ways are known once walked... or flown...
     Captain Draig traversed the alleys. It occurs to him that it is not so unlike navigating the outer rim of a whirlpool. Each step brings you closer to the center. He is a strange thing in the alleys to be sure. Great and martial, his brilliantly embroidered coat, his boots and his leather -- well, those are not so unusual perhaps -- but the full ensemble is one that is oft remarked upon for days after he passes by. You know what they say about a man in uniform...
     I am here...
     He sends the thought outwards, as his hands go to the knobs, the doors opened where needed, where found, and suddenly your brother is on your threshold.
     His hair still shows the signs of being kept quite short on the material plain, but there is evidence of growth with the persistence of waves. His forelocks drape forward, curling at his cheekbones.
     Your apartment, your room, it is the only place where you and I may ever be truly secure. What is said here, done here, revealed here, would never be spied upon. He visibly relaxes as he steps inside, half-turning to close the door behind him.
     His gaze seeks you out immediately. It seems forever since he's seen you. Periwinkle gleams, green pushed to the outer edges. Iowerth shrugs out of his coat, unbuckling his sword. "Bore da," he says, smiling, dropping his gear onto a chair and heading straight for you...

     Tiernan had no objections to farewells; they always result in reunions. He returned to his own work, hand sliding along your coat in farewell after the parting kiss. Leon clung to his shoulder, yowling his own goodbye message, one paw hooked in the back of the man's collar to pull himself up and chew on his hair.
     You walk the alleys, heading to the center of all things; and for you, it is the opposite of for him. You go with martial tread, with gleaming coat and every eye upon you. Your brother, though, goes quietly; none see him and none remark upon his passage.
     That is the way of the thief...
     "Bore da," comes the response, echoing with slight suppressed laughter as you enter his suite. This, his secret place. His last refuge; the final stronghold which Gwilym Gwyn Garu holds for his own use. Few who've seen it know it for what it is; but you are in that small, select number.
     Your brother is dressed carefully-carelessly today; brown leathers for his trousers, rockstar tight. A white shirt, currently open and untucked. His hair is damp and curling, as if he'd ducked his head in a basin of water and it's only now beginning to get dry again. He's sprawled back in a chair, a deck of cards held in one hand, shrewd green eyes turned upon you for a moment as you enter; it's a posed moment, almost. A moment arranged by someone with something to hide.
     And then you're heading to him, and he's rising to his feet waiting to see what you do. Hug, or punch? Kiss, or kill? With you, there is always an equal risk of both, isn't there? "You're looking well, brawd," Gwilym tacks on with a grin, the deck of cards allowed to fall. "Hungry?"

     In this family, greetings are always given with great hugs, even if you just finished beating one another's asses. That is the way it is done. You always hug family. No bedtime was ever complete without Davydd and Rhodri coming in to give the two of you a tuck and a hug. Were you all to sleep in the same house again, it'd be the same now guaranteed. So of course you're pulled into a back-slapping hug. He smells of the sea -- clean, crisp, a hint of salt. "Diolch," he barks it like his father, then smiles easily. "I got your message... both of them. Sorry for the delay. Course, then there was the matter of you're being in a fucking battle! You look good as well, brawd. I was worried I might not see you again after I heard you went in to the Witch's Realm."
     Behind the grateful to see you warmth, there is a bit of tiredness, just there at the corner's of your brother's eyes. You have not yet heard his news. There is so much to say. Will one night do?
     His hand patting your arm, your brother takes a seat. "I could eat." Iowerth snorts a laugh. "Always. Duw." His hand goes to his gut. "Too bad those blackberries weren't ripe. I could have gone for some berries and cream. So... how are you? How have you been? It's been ...what... a year?" He smirks. Hardly a year -- but for the two of you, a prolonged absence. He doesn't rush your news, it'll come out in time, as it should...

     "It's been an eventful time." Your hug is received and returned, and then you are turned loose. Gwilym goes to the cupboard. "I have food; one moment, I'll see what I've got in stock." As it were. You know about his shortcuts; the only one apart from the general who does. But he has never shown you all of what he can do.
     Now he opens the cupboard (a fine piece of carved wood, that) and from its shadowed contents, he pulls such things. A crock of wet blackberries, oes, as you state your desire, a jug of cream. A platter of tamales, still steaming. Pork ribs from somewhere in the American southwest, dripping with sauce. Pitchers of ale and bottles of wine. And he begins carrying his bounty (or perhaps his booty) over to you, to where you sit at his table.
     "Eat up. There's more where this all comes from," your brother tells you with a grin. He pauses, looking down at you semi-seriously; his hand falls to your head for a moment. Emotion, unspoken. And then he moves round the table to his seat, settling himself and pouring himself some ale.
     "The battles were ... intense, but I was never in any real danger," Gwilym murmurs, dismissing any hero's role for himself with you. "It ... was ... interesting." Oes... interesting, his eyes echo with thoughtful flicker. "Your boy is better off out of that mess, brawd. I saw what she left behind. How about you?"

     "I guess when I'm King of the Bounty, I'll have to have a contract with you for the catering," Iowerth drolls as you pull out item after item. "I think this'll hold me. I'm my father's son, but only so far. I have some restraint." He looks up at you as you touch his head. There's no jerking away or any playful punch. He leans into it, his hand coming up to cover yours a moment.
     He makes for the blackberries and cream first, putting a handful of berries in a bowl, pouring the cream on and taking a spoon. He pours a pint for himself as well. Berries and cream and ale. Is there anything better? "Mother had me remain on the material realm. It's... been pretty eventful for me too. I don't suppose anyone's told you. Mother's rarely here, and she's too preoccupied, as she damn well should be, on her pregnancy." He has some worry there that he lets you see. In fact, there's little he's hiding from you.
     Pushing the bowl of berries forward slightly, and after only two bites, he meets your gaze head-on. "Father... knows about Tiernan. He came over to meet this... lieutenant as everyone insists on calling him," he waves that annoyance away, "...he met him, all seemed to go well... but after he left..." He looks at you, then flushes a bit, reaching to get a berry. "I ... underestimated, let me say, the power of my father's hearing."
     He eats one, two more, his gaze lowering to the fruit momentarily. "I'm to be married now...well....not right now," Iowerth emphasizes, "...but sooner rather than later. Two years, I'm told. Tiernan and I have spent most of the ...battle period... on my island, coming up with a plan. I was momentarily grateful," he grins cockwise to you, "... when I heard you went into battle without notifying mother. It took off some of the glare, brawd. As much as I pity you once she's able to put her mind into what she's going to have you do to that house of hers in Paris. I had to strip all the floors and put in all new flooring. God knows what she's going to make you do."
     He takes a breath after all of that, looking across to you. "Interesting is, I suppose, a word for how these last few months of been, oes. And... I wasn't really worried about you, you know. If anyone knows of what to do in darkness, brawd, it's you." Iowerth nods to you, and then leans in for another mouthful of berries and cream.

     "Papa knows?" That almost makes him drop his ale, sacrilege though it'd be. And you are still alive? And so is Tiernan? "Are you..." Well, no, of course you're alright. Just not as alright as desired, probably. "Is there anything I can do?"
     His expression grows sour. Marriage. Such is the fate of all princes. Gwilym sighs, a mighty exhale, and he slides down in his seat a few inches. "We'll see what mother has me do. I'll do it, of course, whatever it is." He shrugs. "There is always a price for sin, pleasurable or otherwise. I saw her briefly; she hugged me. Then she hit me upside the head, and hugged me again. And cried all over me. She said she'll expect me at dinner next week."
     He will find out his punishment then...
     He looks at you in silence for a long moment; then, abruptly, looks away. "Oes, well." You know him. How difficult it is, sometimes, for him to talk. For him to talk, and something other than meaningless words, words, words to come out. He loses himself so easily behind those fluid and shifting masks.
     "I need a favour of you, brawd. I ... it is complicated. But ... I want you to look at me - really look at me." A decision he'd been wrestling with (one of many) has been reached. Gwilym looks to you steadily, hands wrapped quietly around his tankard. "And ... not just as your brother, Io. Look at me, and tell me what you see. As if you'd never seen me before, and you need to sum me up. Can you do that?"

     The rest of what he was going to say is halted upon his tongue as he makes his request. He blinks a moment, like a dog that's been surprised by a whap on the end of his nose, but the blinking stops a half-second later. "I will... try," he says, his eyes going keen. There are questions there: Why do you ask? What are you wanting me to say? These pass over his expression and then he looks at you with unwavering attention.
     He stares in complete silence, neither hemming nor hawing. It is a level look. "On the surface, a very handsome young man, but that is not all there is. There is something in his eyes, as if looking over the spines of books going back and back, layers of things yet to know. He is many things, this young man, but beneath that is, I think, a singular desire to ... have someone share his shadows, these roads he walks. He... seems to walk them alone more than he should."
     Iowerth blinks again. "I could say more... but it is hard not to speak these things that I know...because I know you, Gwilym. I do not think I can truly see you as if I had never seen you before." He smiles a little. "On first impressions? Beautiful, dangerous, quick handed, silver-tongued. All those things you want everyone to see. It is work, oes? To see beyond that for others."
     Iowerth tips his head slightly to the side. "Why do you ask?" He finally asks his question. He is curious. You are going somewhere with this. You are looking for something. But...what? And why. He does not yet answer your own questions posed to him: on his survival, of Tiernan's survival, of the impending marriage.

     "It is work," Gwilym answers softly - oes, it is work. "I make it hard for people to see through me, brawd. Even those who get closest do not get as close as they think."
     I do not know how to undo that. I do not know how to undo those last defenses - as close as I have come to it, I still hold back. Because of you; but that's true and only somewhat true, not entirely. Because of me. What should I say?
     "I've taken a lover." He folds his hands behind his head, regarding you steadily. "And ... I've learned a few things. But it bothers me, Io. If you, who've known me so long," with whom I have this bond, "can't see past my layers..."
     It is answer and non-answer all at once. He wants to answer you - but to speak directly runs counter to who he is, what he is. He tries, but the words knot themselves up even as they leave his tongue. The more he tries, the more they tangle, and the greater his frustration.
     Is it any wonder, then, that he's largely just - given up trying...
     "I want to know what you see," Gwilym says simply. "I can say anything, but truth is a harder nut to crack, Io." He pushes himself to his feet, pulling his drink up with him. He wanders around the room, ignoring the brightly coloured spill of silk dangling from the bed in favour of going to that window out of which he so often looks. "Ask me questions, and I can try to answer them, but it is hard for me to just - speak."
     The more I try to open up, the more I draw up my defenses. I wonder if you know, brawd, how hard it is to even say this much. I am pushing close to the limit of my comfort. I can say more, oes, but if it is not drawn from me ... well, we'll see. I've surprised myself before. I want you to find the truth.
     "Did mum forgive you, at least? How does it look for my own chances?"

     "You asked me to look upon you as if I did not know you," he notes. I did the best I could. "What I think I know? This is different, brawd. I know you are incredibly intelligent, your brain is just this... mechanism that moves so much more quickly than mine. You do have ... these lives, layers, masks. I know the silver-tongued devil. I know the gambler. I know the crafty negotiator who won the secret of secrets, how to manipulate and create something out of the nothing of shadows. You are capable of such... love, such greatness. You are in constant motion, oes... it is sometimes hard to focus...you are so...quick, your hands..."
     Your news stills him. He smiles, but his curiosity is piqued. A lover? "That is... wonderful, brother. I am... happy for you." Iowerth nods. Yes, happy. "I am, brawd. But... I suppose I am ... a little confused as to what the lover has to do with my vision or...lack of vision. I guess I am a little ..." He narrows his eyes, eyebrows knitting, "...hurt? That you seem to think I am not trying to know you. I have watched you, slept in the same womb, the same bed. But ... I'm not a mind reader, Gwilym. I ... don't know but it sounds like you're trying to blame me for something..."
     Have we grown so far apart, brother? The thought crosses his face with a shadow of his own. The rise of red in his face to show that he is upset by the notion. He doesn't fly up and rant as he normally would have, but sits there fingering his glass of ale.
     "I'm not sure I know what you mean by forgiven me. For being with Tiernan? She and da were ...surprisingly supportive, to be honest. What is being done... would have to be done sooner or later. This has just... required that it be sooner. I am adjusting to it," he murmurs. "And ... no... there is nothing you can do, but thank you, brawd. It is what it is, yeah? I'll have to start ...interviewing potential wives soon. Try not to enjoy it too much..."
     Iowerth is quiet for a time. He takes a healthy swallow of the ale and sets down the glass. "I am... glad you've learned. I guess. I mean we all do. I've learned a few things about myself. I don't know, brother, how would you describe me... sum me up... if you didn't know me, weren't my brother... how would you see me? You're not the only one with layers, you know..."

     "No. I don't blame you for anything. What would I blame you for? Anything in my life which is going on, or has gone on, or is going to go on, that's my responsibility, Io, not yours." Gwilym doesn't smile; he is instead gravely serious. It is a sobriety unlike him, isn't it? "And I'm sorry if I hurt you. Now, or - well, back then."
     One hand waves impatiently, a sketch upon the air to indicate the passage of time and all that's happened in it. He wanders, slow in his steps, across the room to the wall; a fist goes there, bracing him as he lifts his ale to his lips. "...I am not more intelligent than you. My mind works differently from yours, but ... it is not a greater thing, Io. Just - different. I don't learn in the same way that you do, I don't think in the same way that you do; we inherited different things, from our family. That's all, really."
     He nods once. That is all. Gwilym turns, back to the wall, letting it take his weight. "Separating myself from myself? If I did not know you... you are fearsome, brawd. A great, bloody competent and strong man, you look as if the world should tremble at your feet. I wouldn't cross you. I'd seek your friendship, if I could, and avoid your enmity. Handsome, oes, but there is something terrible about you. As a mugger or a thief, I'd think twice unless I was looking for a challenge, a risk."
     He speaks dispassionately, sizing you up and summing you up with that lightning calculation for which you know him. "Women sigh over you as the good husband potential, with the hint of danger that makes you all the more desirable. Me, I'm the bad boy; might make a good husband eventually, when I've settled down, but for now, it's the illicit thrill of potentially being the one to tame me, more than anything else. You, though, are the adventurer, the seafarer, the rich man; the king in prince's clothing. The man, rather than the boy..."
     Slowly, he returns to the table; he isn't looking at you, now. Carefully, he refills his glass, continuing as he does. "Using my heart as well as my eyes, with all the knowledge contained therein? If there is one person in the world who could see through me, Io, it's you." And if you cannot, then I'm damned indeed. "You are relentless, brawd. What you want, what you set your interest upon, you will eventually have. Your heart is wide and wild, but wrapped round in thorns. You know your life is a difficult one, and there's few in any world who you'd ask to join you on such a perilous journey."
     For a moment, apple-green eyes lift to yours. Not the colour of jade, this time; you are seeing a different truth. "You have cultivated leadership," Gwilym says softly, "and that is your isolation, brawd. It is hard to be one with fellow creatures, when one is always thinking." His gaze drops again, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I'm glad for you that you've found some measure of happiness. Someone with whom you can ... be whoever it is you're wanting to be. Glad that you know yourself, without confusion, without the need for context."
     He drops back into his chair, lifting his ale, looking into the top of the mug. "...I should have been more explicit. I've taken a male lover."

     He does not disagree with anything you say. There is something of a chuckle for women sighing over him. He gives you a sidelong look. You can't be serious. He seems mollified by your explanation, relieved in his own misunderstanding. His color returns to normal. "You know I admire you. If not, then...hear me say it again: I admire you. I love you," he says simply, not qualifying it in any way. Not because you are his brother. Not because of anything other than he loves you for the one he knows. "You are...closer to me than anyone else. One of the ... very few...correction, two that I have ever been able to truly trust. To give my hand to, my heart to."
     Iowerth looks to the food, the beer. There is too much emotion here, too much revealed to eat and drink. He is getting married. You have taken...
     A male lover?
     Iowerth looks to you and shows his honest astonishment. "When did this... extraordinary turn of events take place? I ..." I didn't know that you were going to ...to seek that out. Because of me? "You... are ... okay with everything?" He blushes suddenly, blaringly. "I.. you know what I mean," he murmurs. "Papa ... can't know. To have both of us... exploring... might kill him. Be careful, Gwi... I will help in any way I can, not that you likely need it. But..." His mouth twitches a little as he looks at you. "I expect you have... everything in hand. You are... at the end of the day... quite accomplished at hiding what you want to hide. Yes? So... this.... bloke of yours. Someone here or ...?" The material realm?

     "I hide everything. There is so little, Io, that I can reveal. So little that I can just - open up and show." To you or to any other. It does not make a difference. "You see more ... than anyone else... than anyone else can." More than I want anyone else to see.
     He rises, suddenly restless, and this time, he leaves his glass behind. He has to move; to pace, to roam, stretching his shoulders, windmilling his arms before he again comes to a halt. "Here," Gwilym says simply. "Not there. I ... the material realm is not for me, Io. I go a little crazy, there. I get this ... noise in my head, and I can't get it out. Even here, I get it a little, at times, but here ... it doesn't bother me so much. Does not compel me."
     It is only in moments like this that there is no noise at all, brawd. I do not know if I can tell you that. I do not know that I should...
     "I don't think there's anything you can help with. I mean ... maybe there is, but ..." Now he is as hesitant with his words as you are. There is no way through this but through. "I went to General Ramanthus, Io. We are ... intimate." He is in love. I do not know yet what I am. I do not know how to put it into words.
     The colour rises in his face in turn, and he looks to you, then away. He's again up against the wall, back to the wall, one fist tapping lightly, soundlessly against the paint. "He ..." Gwilym pauses, then says finally, "If you need to break my nose, go ahead and get it over with. I won't fight you."
     I want him, oes, but how do I tell you what is in my mind, brawd? Then you would really break my bones...

     It is as if some great wind of the sea has stolen all of his breath. For a moment, he cannot make a sound. There's just a deafening silence, the kind that exists just before the first strike of a storm's bolt. He takes a breath and he also rises. He turns, not toward you but to pace in the opposited direction, as if he means to leave saying nothing.
     Iowerth folds his arms across his chest, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. It is not to keep a scream silent. This is just the face of shock. Your news is like a sneaker wave, sweeping him out to sea. He wanders the room, slowly coming back to the table, his arms still folded, his hand lowering from his mouth now. "I... don't know what to say." It's taken him a full five minutes of silence to come up with those six words, let alone anything else.
     So unexpected. "I don't love him. I didn't love him," he notes to you. "There... is ... no reason why you should not pursue such. I suppose after my stories, he was an easier choice for you. Safe." He looks to the table. "It ... was never about love for us." Well, apparently not now. "I... am just so... stunned, Gwilym." Finally, his periwinkle eyes lock upon your own, apple green.
     "I am not going to break your nose. There... is no reason to ... resort to violence, brother." You chose the closest ...
     The closest person to me that is not me...
     "I guess... I am a little... flabbergasted for starters." Jealous? A little? Is that what it is? It does not feel like it. "I.. don't know what to say. He... is ... a generous lover. Duw," he flushes royal red, "... will he compare us? I'm not sure I can deal with that. The comparisons. To wonder... does he find you more...delightful than he found me? What a stupid thing to feel," he chuckles suddenly. But he feels it all the same.
     Knitting his eyebrows together, Iowerth slowly sits back down, his weight falling into the chair heavily. "It doesn't matter," he murmurs. "How... do you feel about it? Knowing that... he and I were intimate. For years. He was my first... male lover."

     "I didn't choose him. Not consciously, anyway." The idea seems to irritate him, to make him impatient, and he gestures as if to swat the notion out of the air with the back of his hand. "I went to talk to him, and - it happened, Io. I was not thinking clearly at the time. Duw!" He barks a laugh. "The noise in my head was ... very bad, then. I could barely think. You would not have recognized me, then."
     He shakes his head as if maddened now, by the memory, by the thought, and lets himself settle back against the wall with a low sigh. "Does it matter if he compares us? You've moved on, Io. You've ... found your own happiness, oes? With Tiernan." And if it comes to stupidity, what of my own? My own jealousy, which makes me want to add to the end of that sentence, 'and not me'...
     These are forbidden waters. Forbidden words. I can't even get them out of my throat when I know myself to be alone, let alone with you or he. I should not expect you to see through me. Could not expect you to be happy with it if you did.
     "You and he were intimate. So?" Your brother fixes you with a direct look, and slowly, slowly he pushes from the wall, moves to regain his own chair. He leans his weight forward, arms folding along the wooden table's edge. "How am I supposed to feel?"
     Gwilym looks at you, then down at his arms, at his glass. It is hard to know what mask to wear for this... "I'm not jealous that you were with him. Any jealousy I have or have had lies in different directions, Io. Does it really matter?"

     "It doesn't matter," he repeats himself. You didn't hear me. He looks at you. "We are bound in ways that... others would find ...impossible," he admits in a hush. "Brother-uncle, brother-nephew. We have... a strange life, brother. Twice the family and yet... twins too... and our family, rooted in the...strange," incestuous, "...relationships of gods." Only ever able to breed with one another. Fathers stop being fathers, brothers become something else. It is strange, and we're knotted up in all of that. "So... no... I guess it doesn't matter..."
     What's a shared lover between brothers?
     "It doesn't bother me," he says after another moment of silence. "He was my mentor, nothing more. Now he is yours." His great shoulders roll. "Only for fear of losing my lover, did I hold back on... offering you to explore matters with him. It's ... better the way you've done it. Far less destructive."
     Iowerth admits it. He admits it crossed his mind. He admits his hesitation. Still, he blushes at it. Clearing his throat, he seeks to clear his complexion. "You... are... I mean to say you... like him? He is quite noble. A good choice," he nods in thought.
     For some reason it bothers me...
     But not for anything sensible. Reasonable. Logical. It is something deep... something... at the root of things. Things that cannot be mentioned...
     Iowerth looks to you, periwinkle eyes softening in his stare. "Are you happy, Gwilym? That is all that really matters. It's all that matters to me."

     He heard you, but he chose to answer something else nonetheless. It's the way he is; most especially with you. He listens, but he is listening intently for something said-not said. Something further down; echoing along the blood, along the link that you and he share.
     "We are not normal people. We are not a normal family. Any hope of that ended with our parents," all three of them, "and the cementing of their union." Gwilym does not speak with distaste or disgust; he simply says it. It is what it is. It is a sentence that you and he both use, often. One hand stretches out towards yours; falls short, and returns slowly back to where it had been.
     I don't dare touch you right now...
     I do not know what it will reveal to you, or to me...
     "I do not think we are alike in nobility, brawd," Gwilym tells you quietly. "He and I, we ... have our commonalities, oes. There is a reason for our being drawn together... not least of which is my - nature, unique or otherwise. I do not think that what I get from him is the same as what you did. We have different purposes. We seek different things."
     His shoulders roll in a shrug, suddenly impatient with his own masks, his own layers, and Gwilym pushes himself up, out of his seat. The wooden legs scrape against the floor as he turns away from your gaze. "Happy? I'm not unhappy, Io. But if you're asking if I am content, if I am in love? I don't know. I suppose. But he isn't -"
     The last word is bitten off. It is too revealing to be spoken aloud. Apple eyes meet your periwinkle directly, and then flash away. And your brother stomps to the window, leaning forward with forearms against the windowsill.
     He isn't you, Io. As close as I can get, perhaps, but how can I forget that it was your name which flashed into my mind? How do I just let that go, when it's the devil that's been chasing me since I found out that you liked men? It's worn as many faces as I have. I've deceived myself mightily, through all those masks I wear. But now I find myself staring it in the face, and the face it wears is yours.
     How do I tell you that, if you don't see it?
     "It doesn't matter, Io," Gwilym says after a moment. Everything is reigned back in. "Life goes on, oes?"

     You are still troubled. What troubles you never hits the air. It does not dance on joined blood. You move away from him, and in your upset how can he avoid going over to you. "I didn't mean to compare," Iowerth murmurs. "Or project. You are right. What you have with him is... yours, completely. Not mine to share in. And ... you do not have to be in love to be happy, Gwilym." He is standing beside you suddenly (not so suddenly, really, as he didn't mask his approach). His hand rests on your shoulder.
     "Don't force it, it is ...what it is. You are right about that. And maybe we never had a chance," he smiles a little, hand patting your shoulder and then drawing away. "With the parents we have. To share... everything. Too much." He exhales a little. "Too much. But it is our fate, perhaps. To love one another too much. To be in one another's business too much. To worry too much about what the other is doing, and with whom. But at the end of the day, what does it matter."
     "I just want you not to worry so much. To allow yourself some joy, yeah? Some contentment if you want it. It might not be for everyone. I'm not sure that I'm content. In fact, I know I'm not content. I do love Tiernan. But I also love you. One ... Gwilym... does not preclude the other. Not with us, brawd."
     We are simply too intwined...
     What we need perhaps we cannot have...
     Iowerth places his hand on your head, a gentle, benedictive moment. "One day you will believe me," he whispers. And he draws his hand away. "Enjoy your lover... you deserve to..."

     You said before that he moves faster than the eye can see quicksilver, his movements. Quicksilver, his tongue. Your hand is caught by his before you can withdraw, and he turns to look at you.
     "Do you feel it," Gwilym wonders, voice quiet, hushed. "The air has thickened. If it were any thicker, even I - even I would not be able to escape it, Io." As masterful a thief as I am...
     He looks at you; meets your gaze squarely, Green to periwinkle, shadows to ocean. "We have always been bound. I ... admit, I did not deal well, when you first told me about Tiernan. I felt I was losing you." I felt I was being rejected... "...I was jealous of him. For having more of you than I do. Of you, for having something I did not."
     It's said, laid bare; masks discarded so that you can see deeper than before. He continues to meet your gaze. Your hand, though, is released; surrendered. And he continues to face you. Where would he retreat? You are between him and the room. Out the window, perhaps? That would be undignified; and it's daylight, with fewer shadows readily available. What does a thief do, when cornered?
     "I was with him the other night. And I almost called him by your name, Io."

     He is less shocked by this admission than he was of the General's presence in the first place. He looks at you steadily, a burden spoken is a burden shared. He gripped your hand as you held it. "We have been and shall ever be bound. Closer than wives, more than family. It is as Hamlet said: A little more than kin and less than kind. Our ...fate is unkind, Gwilym." You and I in this thrice-bound love; a son who must kill a father to become what he is. The whole ruddy thing is unfortunate.
     Iowerth's gaze becomes sympathetic. He nods to your admission. "First... let me say, you can never lose me. You... you, Gwilym, are the only one in the universe who cannot lose me. And...yes... I feel it," he whispers. "The air is choking close." He drops masks as easily as you, so easily it is a wonder he ever held them. "My feelings... are ...and have not been... so different from yours. I was feeling isolated, alone when I came upon Tiernan in the library. But I can only ever love him with half a heart, I think. The rest...you have."
     It is all we can afford to give. Would it not be ruinous otherwise?
     "Do not be ashamed, Gwi," Iowerth murmurs. "You are not alone in this, nor do you have anything to be ashamed about in ...my name coming to your lips. We ...shared puberty, we're neither stupid nor blind. Tell me, how are we to be anything other than intwined, with these emotions and desires, when my father sleeps with his son, and my uncle is my brother, and your uncle is your brother. I mean, on earth, we'd be arrested!" He almost laughs.
     "Here...maybe these...associations are less important." What you have in your brother is unwavering support. His strength is at your back. His hand returns to your shoulder, resting around it. He leans his head against your own. "At least we know it for what it is, right? And we've shared it with one another. We ... must always be honest with one another, Gwilym, for either of us to survive this... Celtic knot we've been born into."

     "It is as Celtic as Sawney Bean," Gwilym mutters, his forehead resting against your own. "And as incestuous." Though hopefully without the interbreeding and cannibalism. He sighs, breath exhaling slowly. It is a relief, telling you this truth. Letting go of these things. Letting you know what has been in his heart.
     His hand comes up to your shoulder, clasping loosely, rubbing briefly before it falls away again as he leans against the windowsill. "We just do not belong on earth," he murmurs to you. "I can say things to you, Io, that anyone else - it would take so much explanation. It would take more than work to say; it would be painful. I walk across broken glass every day."
     Another slow exhale that turns into a choked-off sob. The tears he could not let fall with Ramanthus, in front of anyone else, now remind him of their presence; briefly, only. He closes his eyes to them, tipping his head back from yours. "It's hard, Io," Gwilym says finally. "It's been difficult, this past month." It has been so short a time since he went to the general. Hardly more than a span of a moon. "I've learned a lot, and - figured out a lot. But it's still ... hard."

     He brings you into his arms, a hold that is the sum of all things. "I know," he murmurs. "And I am sorry." He apologizes though he is not to blame. Still, it should be said. Strong arms enfold you, draw you to the silken chest. He rests his chin upon your head. You are growing again. Only we would know this. He holds you through your emotions. In the sea of it, Iowerth is your rock.
     A hand reaches up to cradle your head. "We do not belong on earth. I have told the Kings and Queen as much," he murmurs. "We were not conceived there, were not born there, do not belong there. It only took days to see it. Not even the refuge it promised was real. It is more a phantasm to us than the Otherworld is to them."
     Iowerth exhales. "I will always be here for you, Gwilym. Do not be afraid of me." He does not let you go. Leaning back, he puts a hand to your face. He wipes the bit of moisture there, protecting you. Always. His mouth brushes your forehead in a tender touch.
     "Sometimes, learning is of no great comfort," he notes softly. "But we have learned something today, we have been reminded of this bond. And we must never take it for granted. We must always trust it, Gwilym. Always. Even when it seems... as if no one could trust so much, believe so much." He rests his forehead against your own again, his arms still looped around you. "You will always be first in my heart. Please believe me, Gwilym. Always. Everything I do, I do on some level for you...the places I discover, the pirates I vanquish, soon... even the woman I will have to marry. Though it may seem these things take me further from you, it is ...it simply not true." Iowerth kisses your forehead once more.
     "Don't be afraid..."

     He shifts, almost fretful, eyes still squeezed closed, always so tightly closed. As if you must be his eyes while he faces this darkness. "I'm not afraid of you," Gwilym murmurs. He exhales, letting the tension in his chest dissolve, an arm going crookedly around your neck. His other hand opens from its fist, an awkward pat given to your hip, fingers then curling there as he sighs.
     I am sorry. The words are given to you, unending, regret and sorrow and relief pushing them from him to you. I did not want to burden you, Io. Whatever else, I wouldn't want to be that.
     Brother, friend, confidant, trusted spy, any of those he has been. Other roles have been dreamed of, but to be a burden... it makes him ache, shuddering inside.
     "I know that we are bound and always will be bound," Gwilym sighs finally. He looks down, between himself and you, copper and gold of his eyelashes flickering. "I ... feared losing you, oes, at the beginning. I suppose that I do not deal well with rejection." His mouth twists wryly. Who would have guessed it.
     "I was jealous ... of others wanting you, and not me. Of others wanting you, and having you, but not me. Of you ... wanting others..." But not me. There is trinity in that, and he leaves it incomplete; unspoken.
     As if saying it might make it true, or - might lead to some chain reaction...
     His hands come up, clasping your face between them gently, those fine-fingered hands delicate. He has unlocked so many doors, treasures beyond measure have passed through his hands. And now, he cannot look you in the eye.
     "I will try to do better, brawd... I am sorry."

     No need to apologize. You are not a burden, Gwilym. Nor have you ever been. I have sometimes felt a great responsibility, but you are your own master, your own king. And I am learning to let that go. He smiles as he holds you. You will be by my side so long as I have sides, yes? King of Shadows.
     "Yes, we are," Iowerth echoes on his voice. But the resonance of those words, they move within you both as if merely conveyed on blood. Always that bond will echo between you. "I did not mean for it to be or to seem to be a rejection of you." His arms do not let you go. It is as if you are both in the same crib once more. Your space is his space; his is yours. Periwinkle eyes sparkle to you, the green there in slivers of seaweed amid the coral. They are cool, soothing water, his eyes. They promise sandy beaches when he is being compassionate, loving, affectionate.
     As you cradle his face, Iowerth shakes his head, just slightly, a gentle dismissal of your guilt. No need to apologize. He leans forward and closes the distance without thinking, a gentle kiss placed on your mouth. It is fraternal and beyond fraternal. Love is; only the mind wishes to give it boundaries. "I understand," Iowerth whispers. "But I do not wish you to be anything other than yourself. And to know that I love you above all others. And if you are not wanted by someone now, which I find exceedingly hard to believe, then you shall soon. You will be loved and have love. I know this. I feel this for you. And you always have me." He smiles, eyebrows lifting. That's better than a sharp stick in the eye, oes?
     "You don't need to apologize," he whispers, a kiss placed to your cheek. "Never that." His arms slacken slightly, his hands resting at your side then lifting to your shoulders. "We are solid, always. Never doubt it, brawd."

     "It is not enough to be wanted by others. But you know this, Io." Your brother smiles crookedly, slanting it at you with the glint of humour and emotion making his eyes far too bright. "If it were enough ... you'd have lost your heart years ago." Instead of only two.
     One hand lifts, opened, pats against your chest lightly. It is difficult. You know. He knows. You kiss him, and he sighs, an arm going around your waist. "Io," Gwilym murmurs. And that's all. Just your name, murmured aloud for the air to taste it, for the air to take it. Do with it as you will.
     Perhaps it is impossible to feel no guilt, as close as we two are and have been. I left you a note, when I went to war. He lets this information slip, from his mind to yours. Fingers run through your hair, an absent caress. With you, he is capable of such easy intimacy; it almost breaks his heart. He does not look to your eyes. I did not tell you these things in the note. If I had died ... better such thoughts die with me, than leave you behind with regrets or hatred. I wanted ... you to think of me as a hero, brawd. As someone worth remembering. Not some coward, unable to confess his feelings except when beyond being touched by the consequences of them.
     There are risks, and consequences. He knows this keenly. As a thief - he dances on that fine-edged line. Flirting with being caught; captured by irrevocable ends. It is different, with you...
     He looks up, and abruptly, his arms both go around you, tightening in a hug, an embrace. "Why is it so hard for me to tell the truth, even to you?" Gwilym wonders quietly. His lips press to your ear, and he whispers, "I love you, Io. Don't forget it, oes? I ..." It finishes on that one word. One moment of painful intimacy; painful honesty. And he is withdrawing. Receding. Having shown you his vulnerability, he cannot stand it any longer.
     Thieves do not stay o'erlong, unless compelled...

     You are a hero. I have always thought of you that way. Since the first pocket pie you stole for me off the window of the royal kitchen. He smiles, his hand patting your back. He returns your tight hug. There is a squeeze of powerful arms. Seafaring suits him. But it is time to part ways, it seems. As you recede from his hold there is no effort to trap you, to make you stay longer than it is safe to do so.
     "I am glad we talked about it instead. I would have been... inconsolable in your loss. Even if you had put it in the note, I wouldn't have understood it." He grins a bit then, a sidelong cut to that smile. "I would have had to kill some shite for certes, had anything happened to you. As it was, it was murder sitting on the sidelines."
     The intimacy between you is easy, perhaps too easy. But there is no guilt from him, nor sense of shame. You shared a womb, a crib, beds, now lovers. How is the General any different from anything else shared by you in the past? Iowerth nods, inclining his head. "I love you, too. Be remembered of it. When you doubt yourself, remember there is one who doesn't doubt you. Whose heart, whose arms are always open for you. You always have a home with me. Always. Don't forget it," he says, and with such quiet authority.
     Iowerth looks at you a long moment, watches you withdraw into the safety of distance, of shadows. He understands it. He knows how hard this was for you. There is recognition of that in his eyes, in his expression. Keep in touch. I need to hear from you. I will be docked for a while. I ... expect the announcement of my intent to take a queen will go out in the next week or two. Pray for me.
     With an exhale and a roll of his eyes, Iowerth turns to head for his coat and his sword. This is your apartment. If anyone needs to leave, it's him. "And... if she sends you to Paris to paint the house, let me know. I'll sneak in and help if I can." He pulls on his coat and buckles his sword. He looks to you. Be well, brawd.

     You will find me when you least expect me... unless you come looking.
     The green fields and apple trees of Avalon are mirrored in his gaze as he turns to you. Find me, Io. You're the only one who can.
     He believes it passionately. Noone else has penetrated past his masks so much as you. Noone else has he wanted to be revealed to so painfully; so openly.
     He is withdrawing because he must. As far as he forces the door open wide, there is still some crippling limitation. He draws his power from concealment, after all...
     "If she sends me to Paris, I will live the life of Riley for as long as it lasts." Gwilym smiles a little, looking down at his feet and not at all at you. "Things are ephemeral, Io. Nothing exists but to change." He scratches the back of his head, then turns to look out the window, sliding it open. "I'll ... talk to you later, yeah? Have a good one."
     He has told the truth. And now, his masks are slamming back in on him. Where does one run, from such as this?

Posted by rowan at July 17, 2006 04:42 PM