It was good that they removed themselves. The energy was stifling between them, despite their good intentions. What they needed, what they always need to clear the air, was a battle.
     Where before they had the Welsh woods -- these very woods, in fact -- now they have the green of a billiards table. Where once there were armies, now there are spheres marked with the heraldry of Solids and Stripes.
     On the third floor of the great castle, and on the west side facing Wales, is a monument to Manhood. When Sandrine Jorgensen was making Davydd "presentable", she had his "things" moved -- the animal trophies, heads and hooves and all -- and provided him the impetus for creating his own pub within a palace. It is larger than Black Jack Davy's, with a large, oak bar that any pub would salivate over, stocked sky high with alcohol, whiskies of every kind and country. The flooring is the same red-white checkered marble, the walls are painted a scarlet red and the furnishings are all of heavy wood and leather. On the walls, those old trophies hang -- stags and boars, pheasants, bears, roebucks, wolves -- from a lifetime of blood-sporting.
     In the center of the large room stands a formidable table, one that is suitable for such formidable men. It was made sometime in the 19th Century. A gift from William once, a long time ago.
     The cocoa colored jacket has been removed and lain across the back of the chair. The sleeves of the chocolate cashmere sweater are pushed upward. And as William rounds the table with the lance of the cue in his hand, he looks like the knight, the duke he once was. Give the man a long stick, and he could conquer the world.
     On the table, the battle is underway. Advantage Plantagenet.
     Davydd stands with the cue in his hands, butt of it on the floor and leaning on it like he would a spear. His coat long since abandoned, he's down to his button-down shirt and his black wool trousers. The easy banter has been anything but easy.
     They have played in periods of silence. Of late, the balls have done most of the talking. But in between skirmishes (they are tied, one game to one), there have been questions, answers, clarifications. And now there comes a kind of guarded easiness. One that exists, it seems, despite themselves.

     "Mum, are you here? Da's been making me insane, he wouldn't stop hugging me." The voice is lifted in complaint. It is a voice which Davydd will certainly recognize, as his grandson-of-age; and a voice William may recognize as well; it calls in what seems to get used most as a parlor or sitting room as Gwilym Gwyn Garu slides through shadow to corridor, corridor to room itself, and finds it empty.
     He grumbles, raking a hand back through his hair and turning on one heel as if to go. "I thought they'd be here by now," Gwilym mutters. He paces forward, then back, sniffing the air, eyes brightening. Oh - there's food in the offing. Not time to go just yet, then, not when there's to be a feed-up. "I'll surprise them," he murmurs to himself. But where to hide himself in the meantime? Ah, of course. The perfect place.
     It is the downfall of the thief, really, to relax too much, to be too confident that even home has no dangers. And he of all people should know it; has used it against others often enough. The doors to the game room are not swung mightily open, since he thinks he is being so cunning; instead, one door is eased open gently, and he backs in to pull the door closed behind him. This young man in London chic, Todd Oldham shirt and Zaf Diesel jeans, expensive leather jacket and expensive leather boots and a haircut which could just as easily have cost him five hundred pounds if he'd bothered to let someone that close to him with a knife or scissor - he backs inside, grinning to himself, and then he turns.
     He turns - and his eyes go comically large, round and astonished, much as his mother's might under similar circumstances. It is a look, oes. A look which speaks clearly his surprise in two syllables : Oh, shite.

     Lord, for a moment of levity...
     When you roll in, as only you can, you interrupt a shot and come face to face with dark green eyes and indigo. An eyebrow goes up on each face -- two on Davydd's -- as you look shocked, and then somewhat terrified. Davydd chuckles and waves you in. "Close the door, you're letting in all the estrogen..."
     And for the first time tonight, William cracks a true grin. It is warm, it hints at depths of amusement and laughter. He bends, and the balls crack with a solid shot. "I am surprised there are not throw pillows in here. But at least you get to keep one room in the fifty room palace for yourself."
     "Gwilym," Davydd says, extending his arm to you, the cue held by his other, "I have someone I want you to meet. A very important man, and actually a distant relative."
     "A better looking relative," William drawls. The grin is honeyed in its warm tone, and in its slow spreading across his expression. "But... I hate to disappoint you, brawd, but I have met your..... nephew. Cousin. Hmm... what was it that you said you were to this no-account Welsh bandit?" He is tempted to say: I should not speak of the dead that way.
     Now it's Davydd's turn to look shocked. You've met? He looks back and forth between the two of you. "I thought you were in Venice."
     "I was. But you know... I go to London now and then," William grins. It is a smile that conveys something it should not, something that didn't happen. The smile no father wants to see, if a man is speaking of his daughter. Surely not...
     "I want you to meet him anyway," Davydd says to Gwilym, "...even though he's French. Gwilym Gwyn Garu, this is William. The man you were named after." He looks to William. Ha! I got you! "And he is not my nephew-cousin-whatever. He is my other grandson. I have a grandson named after my William. And a son named after Edward." He takes an emotional pause then squeezes Gwilym's shoulder. "This is a man you should know," he murmurs to him. "He is one of the greatest men I have ever known."

     He stays in his shocked and standing position for a moment longer, then slowly relaxes enough to pull the door closed. "Ah, nos dda," Gwilym offers, unsure whether or not his voice will sound as if his balls haven't dropped yet. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." Had he known you were both here, he would have been anywhere but.
     But there is a crooked arm to him, and slowly, reluctantly he comes forward, his hand going back over his hair again. Emerald-brilliant eyes move from grandfather to 'distant relative', and he flushes, looking embarrassed for a heartbeat before his usual arrogant composure begins to reassert itself.
     "Ran into him at the coffee shop," Gwilym tells his grandfather with a quick look - it's not my fault! Really! - "where I sometimes play guitar. That's all. And -" And you are telling him who he is. And what he is. In relation to you. After all this time. For the second time in less than five minutes, Gwilym is jolted in his composure. His eyes widen, and without turning his head, he looks to first grandfather, then Frenchman, then raises his eyebrows. "...Nos dda? I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to a great man. Good evening, sir?"

     "Nos dda," William answers easily. "I am great, aren't I?" He smirks at that. "Great enough to beat you," he says to Davydd. "I do not know about the rest. But then... so long as I beat you, what else really matters? And you may call me William," he says to Gwilym. "You are my namesake, hmm?" He looks you over more seriously. "Maybe I will let you call me by my full name..."
     "Do you mind if I tell him, William?" Davydd says in answer to that. He wishes to, that much is clear. For a moment, the two men look at one another, and finally William nods.
     "If he is going to have my name," his voice eases as he leans with the cue, "... he should know why it is important." He pauses only briefly, then waves with the cue, "...oui..."
     "Why don't your pour the three of us a whisky, Gwilym. We're going to welcome you to the club, m' boy. Shall we call the game?"
     "Like hell," William quips. "I will finish you off while he is pouring. Ah..." he grins, "... victory and a toast to my magnificence..." The languid stride toward the table transitions into the lowering of the lance-cue and a strike and another strike, balls falling into the netting.
     Rolling his eyes with a sigh, Davydd turns and stows away the cue for now. "Magnificence. Listen to you. Do you Frenchies do anything but boast?"
     "We fuck like gods, and drink only the finest alcohol," William drawls, rounding the table. He grins slowly, his indigo eyes sharp on the kill. "It is not boasting when one is merely being honest, ne c'est pas? I will have a bourbon, Gwilym..."

     More and more, Gwilym is beginning to feel as if he's walked into someone else's screenplay. This is a movie, right? The Illuminati have invited him in for a little chat about his namesake. It is surreal. He moves slowly to the bar as he is bid, movements careful, doing his best to be inconspicuous - about as inconspicuous as a bull in ruffled lingerie.
     An uncomfortable way for a thief to feel, when he is not choosing to be conspicuous.
     He reaches for the whiskey and then the bourbon, feeling himself conscious of the red glow on his cheeks as he turns to play bartender. That, at least, he can take confidence in; isn't his father one of the finest bartenders in existence, after all? "Your glasses, gentlemen," Gwilym drawls, "not quite time yet, so we won't be calling time. Whiskey and bourbon, then, over ice or plain, sir, how's your fancy?" When in doubt - crack wise. It's worked well for him for twenty-three years to date. "I'm a bit fond of the Italians, myself..."
     More of a slip than he meant to make; he covers it by pouring with intense concentration and adding a third glass for himself. He favors as his mother does - vodka. Grey Goose, and he's feeling a need for it, tonight...

     Oh yes? William's look takes an interested cast. "I would have to agree. I keep a few around in my household. You never know when the mood is going to strike..."
     "Okay, okay," Davydd rumbles. "Let's not get disgusting..."
     "You are too sensitive. For a man your age, it is ridiculous," William chuckles. The last of the balls falls into the netting and William gives Davydd a shake, his large hand on the equally large shoulder. "I have put you out of your misery. And I feel much better."
     "You're bloody awful, you know that? Takin' delight in another man's pain."
     "I'm sure there's someone in this castle who can tend to your...bruised ego later."
     Davydd waggles those fiery eyebrows at that -- ever see comets dance? -- but he doesn't elaborate on that note. No need to make the boy nauseated. "Whisky neat." No ice. Davydd rounding the table and heading to one of the leather chairs.
     "I prefer mine polluted," William says, surrendering his weapon at last. He sets it back in the case and turns, pulling down his sleeves once more. Polluted -- with ice. He looks to Davydd as he takes a seat. "Gwilym... I will preface this story by saying that your grandfather," there's a look to Davydd at that, "...and I have known one another for a very, very long time." Even though he only looks twenty-five himself, and your grandfather no more than forty. "Until tonight... I did not know that I had such an extended family." Indigo fixes to dark green again. Something passes between the men, something emotional, and then William settles back in the large chair, awaiting the drink. His large hands interlace against the cashmere at stomach.
     "Gwilym.... is more like us than the rest of the family," Davydd says, rather proudly. "He keeps to the shadows this one, more even than his father. Rhodri," Davydd confirms at William's look. "He's a chip off the old block, if I may say so with all due humility."
     "You've never been known for your humility," William murmurs, this words edged by a slight upturn of his lips.
     "True," Davydd grins. "Gwilym, William is my oldest, and I do mean oldest, friend. We started out as enemies..."
     "...Those were the days..."
     "But then, he married my sister. And I have known him... nearly all my life." All eight-hundred and some years of it. "He is a great artist. Before that, he was a great general. He was the only man to defeat me in battle. And I owe him my life. Among other things."

     He listens to the two of you as he fixes the drinks, nimble hands making light work of it. He mumbles something under his breath when the topic of consolation comes up - something about being scarred for life - but doesn't explain; whiskey neat is produced for his grandfather, bourbon over ice for the visitor, both with a formal little bow that has a flourish to it all the same. And he takes up the vodka bottle, splashing it over ice into a glass with a twist of lemon. Almost girly, in comparison, but he makes no apologies.
     "If it's any consolation, sir," Gwilym tells William, voice steady and gaze level, "I've always said I didn't ask to be born. But I'm the ace up papa's sleeve, oes? So sending out birth notices probably would have spoiled that." A slight bow, and he recedes, as it were; as much as he can glitter and sparkle, right now, he is keeping his light hidden under a bushel for the time being. He is aware, it may be, of his place.
     And besides, one learns more by listening... oes?
     "Among other things?" When it comes to debts and riches, there is a natural affinity for a thief to investigate. Gwilym peers from a perch at Davydd, his glance slowly returning to William. Wary as a cat, he is. And less prone to shedding.

     "A few lives," Davydd notes.
     "And at least a thousand pounds remaining in old war debt," William notes, sipping at the bourbon. He holds the glass balanced on the chocolate colored wool. He studies you where you sit there in your corner, in the distance. He seems to pucker his lips in thought. In truth, he's sucking on an ice cube.
     "At least!" Davydd cracks. "You know how Time's a funny thing," he murmurs to his grandson. "William and I have walked the earth together longer than most nations have existed. Longer than Rome. We've fought in numerous battles. He remembers when Rhodri came to be with me, all of nine years old, if you can believe it. He's one of two men, other than your father and you and Iowerth, that I'd give anything to. I've messed up now and then."
     William looks at Davydd at that. Yes, you have done that. But when he looks to you, Gwilym, his gaze mollifies.
     "So when you were born, Gwilym, I looked down at you and named you after my best friend, my blood brother. I wanted to show him to you," he says to William, "...when he was small. But... better late than never at all..."
     "We've had a long history," William explains in general, his gaze moving from elder to younger. "A long history has its ups and downs. But the downs...are never permanent," he is speaking to Davydd then. A swallow of bourbon follows that moment of emotional honesty. Too much in one night isn't healthy. "And over time, a family grows larger." He exhales, the breath carrying a grin with it. "And so I have a new grand-nephew." With a flicker of indigo to Davydd, William's grin spreads in a slant. I am glad I didn't seduce him. I would have felt rather awful. He doesn't say it. But he thinks it loud and clear.
     "Jupiter's bones, that smile," Davydd rumbles in old complaint. "You're going to hell for that look alone..."

     He listens; he is good at listening. A thief must be. But not as good as his father. He talks too much for that. But he is not talking right now.
     "And here I was, walking in, scared to death I was in trouble for some reason," Gwilym murmurs. It is not a complaint. He grins a little, knocking back his vodka. Oes, he can relax a little. Nothing has been found out. Or if it has, it is not yet time for him to take his lumps.
     "So," he looks to his grandfather, one eyebrow rising now, that grin of his spreading, "you named me after him. Do I take after him?" Eyes widen, emeralds glinting as he then looks to William. There is a laugh held back, behind his teeth as he attempts to look perfectly serious.

     Davydd chuckles, "That's a loaded fucking question." He glances between you both, smirking. "Unfortunately for everyone on the fucking planet... I fear so."
     "That's a compliment," William quips, grinning at the rim of the glass as he finishes the bourbon. An ice cube is quickly decimated by plunging fangs as he moves the cube from one side of his mouth to the other. It gives them something to kill, ne c'est pas? "What your grandfather means to say," comes the intonation of that languid baritone voice, "...is that you are handsome, well-endowed, charming, intelligent, and people give things to you because of it."
     "Jesus," Davydd rolls his eyes, "... it never ends..."
     William laughs, as much for the bullshit he is speaking as for Davydd's own reaction to it. "It is such fun torturing you, even though you make it easy. So easy," he chuckles. "I never tire of it. In a thousand years, I will still be laughing at you, ami..."
     "If we're still around in a thousand years, I'm killing both of us. Murder suicide, so help me god," Davydd rumbles, his words broken up by chuckles. He looks over to you. "He's a deceiver this one... and an unparalleled thief. Thief of flesh, paintings, you name it and he has probably taken it from someone else. Hell, they fucking give him what he wants. All he has to do is bat his fucking eyelashes. I hate that," Davydd grouses, humorously ...yet grousing all the same.

     "Oh, so that's where I get it. And here I thought I just got it from mum and da." Gwilym lifts his drink, his grin spreading across his face - and for a moment, there's the emperor under the mask, the casual, golden child he can be when he chooses. He looks to his namesake and then to his grandfather. "...I don't usually bat my eyelashes."
     But he can't deny he gets given things. Books. Clothes. Motorcycles. Virgins' maidenheads. Hearts. Sometimes he has wondered if they are not all wasted on him.
     So he does not deny it...
     Instead, he slides from his seat and back to the bar, falling facilely back into the role of barman. "Glasses if you please, gentlemen. Top you off?"

Posted by rowan at December 14, 2006 09:39 AM