Sleep has been his blessed companion more than anything else, since his arrival here. He has woken at times; each time, with a start, soundless save for the rustling of the sheets. Suddenly and entirely wide awake, looking into the room and reaching for a sword which is not there. Slowly, each time, he relaxes again, but he is pallid, white and trembling once his sword hand has relaxed.
     He has eaten when food has been brought to him, but never very much. His usual appetite has not yet returned, and he is disinclined to talk very much; not out of any sourness of spirit, but only out of this seemingly endless fatigue. There are moments where he is almost himself. Brief touches, brief words, the shadow of his usual humour making itself known, sparkling for a moment in his eyes. But most of the time, he has fallen into a well of Sleep so deep that it seems he cannot be woken.
     Now he is awake again. Gwilym rubs his eyes with one first, pinching then the bridge of his nose. He exhales quietly. "How long," he wonders, "since I got here? I have not been marking the passage of time." He sits up in the bed, leaning against pillows, the sheet falling to his waist. Still tired, but no longer quite so gauntly drawn. No real smile, though, the light of self-mockery seeming permanently embedded behind his eyes.

     "Two days," comes the quiet tone of the General's voice. For those two days, his bedchamber has become a working office. A cabinet desk was once again employed and a chair brought in from the outer room. He has served you the meals himself, poured healthy philters from his own hands, tending to you as any lover would one might expect, particularly if one's lover were a doctor.
     "You've needed the rest," Ramanthus confirms as he sits upon the edge of the bed. He is clothed for home, having not left the house since your arrival -- in his mantle and breeches and soft-soled shoes. His hair has been pulled back, braided intricately and kept out of his face. "Self-recrimination is not part of the recommended treatment," he peers at you and then he smiles, tipping his head back slightly. "How are you feeling?"
     Quite unbeknownst to the general, there is a bird swooping down on his home. The quite sanctuary of his manse may well be turned upside down once the crown prince arrives and in a worried state. But perhaps you can give him a little warning. For though you do not know, could not know, that a starling has begun its descent, you are gifted with the sudden sound of Iowerth's voice.
     Gwi... can you hear me... are you alright? More to the point, are you ... presentable? We've had reports you've been wounded...
     We. That can only mean one thing: someone else in the family was with him when he heard. Christ on a stick, as your papa would say.
     "I think the food and rest has done you some good," Ramanthus murmurs, his hand resting on your sheet-covered thigh. "I will prepare another of the honey philters, that should take care of any lingering effects of the poison..."

     Gwilym groans aloud, so that one might think him suddenly pained. Or distasteful of honey philters. Oh, sweet lord...
     I'm in bed. Alone. Keep your voice down, my head wants to come off as it is. The younger of the two princes opens his emerald eyes, turning them wryly towards the general. "My brother is on his way here. You may want to warn your people not to try to block his way; he seems in a bit of a flap."
     Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Of course, he'd say that if he were half-dead, wouldn't he? Now Gwilym begins casting his glance around. "If he's on his way in, I suppose I should get dressed, be something a little more presentable for Io." A hand scrapes against the stain of the night sky; his gaze drops down to himself, then lifts again. "Got anything that'll fit me?" The fact that he has not, of course, just thrown the sheets back and gone looking on his own is proof that he's still not well.
     "Oh. How I am feeling." Gwilym pauses at that. He had not really thought about the question. He leans back, closing his eyes. "Like death has been tugging on my short and curlies, if you must know. But I'll make do. I am tougher than that."

     He tries not to laugh at how you put it...your short and curlies...but his eyes sparkle with his own delight. Your use of language. "Stay in bed, that is a general's command, and when you are in his house, it is his rule, yes? Do not move, you need to rest. I will handle Iowerth." His hand pats upon your leg again and he rises. Despite telling you not to worry and not to move, he does hand you a robe so that you might make yourself decent, should you wish.
     That you should not wish to rise is in his gaze. Pivoting, Ramanthus turns toward the bedroom door (which is open to his outer chambers). His lips move but his voice does not seem to sound. Yet it does for sensitive elven ears. An order has been given to open wide the doors and show the crown prince in. A request has been made for food and drink. "Someone must have seen you approach the house and reported it," the general notes. "I will send immediate word to your mother, the Queen, that you are fine before she is allowed to worry more. You... stay put," Ramanthus indicates. He is not to be argued with on that point.
     There is nothing more from Iowerth. Has he left? Could you be that fortunate? But you know in this family that silence can rarely be trusted and never lasts for long. I have informed mother there's no need to worry. Your brother's voice comes with the mist of the ocean. Don't make a liar out of me. You better be glad I was there with her. Otherwise, your da may be on his way and all hell'd break loose. Yes, where are your manners?
     Ramanthus is passing into his outer chamber just as Iowerth is entering. The door is open, you can easily see your brother's arrival. The dragon leathers are midnight blue with the occasional fleck of sea-foam green. His upper body is covered in a kind of iridescent scaly chain tunic that falls past his hips. His eyes are no longer blaring worry but he is very intent on seeing you. And you might detect a shiver of awkwardness from the crown prince to his former lover. The type that is common after a long parting when the lover is now with his brother instead of him.
     "May I see him?"
     Ramanthus turns, gesturing Iowerth toward the bedchamber. "Of course, your majesty. He is fine," he assures softly, "...but fatigued. Does your mother know his condition? I was on my way to send word..."
     Iowerth appears in the doorway of the bedchamber, his kingly demeanor melting when he sees you. He says nothing for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, general, such is not necessary. I informed her he was fine. I will report to her myself." Looking at you a moment, he then turns to the general. "Would you mind if I spoke with him?" The implication being: alone.
     Ramanthus does not smile, though the gentleness of understanding is in his gaze. "Of course not, he is your brother. You should. I am having more food and drink brought up for him. Would you care for anything?"
     "No," Iowerth shakes his head, looking away from Ramanthus to you again. "No, I'm fine." He steps in and turns, closing the door softly behind him. "Are you really alright? You didn't look all that well the last time I saw you, no offense. You look knackered, Gwi."
     The bed creaks with his weight as he sits on the edge of the bed. "I know something's been troubling you. Something's going on and has been since you left me that night." His hand covers yours, grips it tight. "You going to tell me so I can help you? Or are you going to keep making yourself miserable and me in suspense?"

     He looks at the robe with some mystification. Of what use is this? With a sigh, he sets it to one side. If he does get up, he'll use it then. The command is, in its way, a blessing; he can use it as an excuse to stay in bed and pretend it isn't his idea. He closes his eyes, leaning back so that his weight is supported.
     Oh ... Christ. Mother knows? Well, just as well that word is being sent, then; it covers all tracks. I'm fine, Io. It was just a little scratch.
     He lies like a rug. 'Just a little scratch' - try several hundred little scratches, all along his arms and legs. Mystically inflicted wounds upon his scalp and back, and drained of his own power so much that the marks of his power began to bleed, his other markings no longer concealed beneath his skin. Add to that a venom strong enough to kill an ordinary man, combated in him only by his own innate shadow self...
     Gwilym watches the two of you; the General and the king. Both his lovers. Oh, now this is awkward. He winces internally as he watches that awkwardness, mouth twisting wryly. And the door is closed. "Diolch," he drawls out, then exhales. "Always nice to know I look how I feel. I'll tell you, but don't hover. I feel enough the fool as it is."
     One hand lifts; you can see how slowly he is moving. How tired he still is. "Just ... fetch me something to drink first, would you? And did you ever go after that boy of yours? End my suspense before I end yours, in deference to the wounded, eh?"

     He can indeed see, and his eyes narrow at it, as if to inspect each motion in detail. That mind of his, so adept, so quick to absorb. "This is rather embarrassing," Iowerth notes suddenly in a wry drawl, "... but I do know where the man keeps his liquor." Rolling his eyes, he rises and heads to the other cabinet desk, which isn't a desk at all but a bar. Opening it, he pulls out a bottle and another bottle, inspecting. "I did," he looks over his shoulder at you. "I'm glad you insisted on it. Seems he and I differed on the terms of the separation. I took it a bit farther than he had. But we're on the same road now. He's still back in Venice. Will be for a bit yet, but I'll live."
     Pouring a glass of clear liquid, he looks at you again. "Thanks for boxing my ears. I'm so glad I'm about to be able to return the favor." He doesn't pour anything for himself, not yet. "Do you find it a bit odd, us both being in this bedroom at the same time? There, I've said it," Iowerth breathes a sigh of relief and it clears the air of the earlier awkwardness.
     "So," glass offered to you as he sits once more on the edge of the bed, "... what's going on and what's happened?" His voice is warm upon those questions. It is his concern that's voiced, not his droll sense of humor and comic retribution. You've had him worried for a while, you see it now.

     There is the sparkle of mischief, the retort rising in his eyes. Will he have the strength to get it out? "Awkward? Diolch, brawd, but what makes you think this isn't the basis for some of my more pleasant dreams?" He's feeling better; just saying it is making him feel better. Which doesn't change the fact that he is still pale and drawn, lying back against the pillows with the need to close his eyes for a moment.
     For that moment, he says nothing. Then, finally, he says quietly, "Do you remember back when we were boys together, and I first showed you my ... road? Took you on it through that woman's house - the woman with the hood and her lizard servant?" His eyes open, and he turns his head on the pillow so that he can regard you. Do you? "It starts with her."

     "Hmmm... oes," he nods slowly. "And the mark upon the small of your back." He pauses and smirks at you. "And you think I don't listen." Your comments about your 'pleasant dreams' makes him color in the face and cock up an eyebrow. Are you trying to kill me? But the embarrassment passes, wiped away by the slow pull of his mouth. We'll get to that later.
     "She didn't care for me a whit, I recall. You found that rather hilarious at the time. I take it... you and she met again then." Iowerth waits for you to tell it, though it is his nature to jump forward. Recognizing that, he holds after his last word, his expression placid and waiting for you to reveal it.

     "I never told you the entirety of the deal, brawd. Because I didn't tell anyone." Gwilym grins a little at your reaction, but the grin dies away; he closes his eyes again and begins to explain. One hand folds onto his stomach, the other lying at his side.
     Gods above, this is difficult... it was easier when I was half-dead. But then, it was also easier because it wasn't Io I was making my confession to...
     "She is a daughter of death. I do not know what, precisely, she is; I never asked. I know that noone can see her face who is not her creature, not and live; only to those she owns is that immunity granted. For whatever reason, though, she can't just lower her hood and kill whoever she wants. I came across her in my wanderings, and she recognized me as one of the princes." Gwilym keeps his eyes closed under your gaze as he speaks, voice even and quiet as he speaks. "She offered me a game of chance. If I won, she would grant to me access to a realm beyond my imagining; if she won, she would get me to do with as she saw fit, her slave forever. My soul, essentially. And we played at dice."
     There is no pause for your potential explosion. He just keeps talking; having begun, it's easier to just get it all out without stopping, letting himself wind down like a clock. "Quickly I saw that she was cheating, so rather than argue - which, I realized later, would have resulted in me forfeiting - I start cheating also. I cheated better than she did, and I won. She," Gwilym smiles wryly at that, "didn't much like that. But a bargain's a bargain, oes? She opened the door for me, and I went through. And she let the door close behind me."
     "If I had not been who and what I am, I would have been stuck there in shadow. Maybe she would have come back for me - I don't know, it doesn't much matter. At the time, I thought she'd given me the power to travel there, to manipulate the shadows. Of course, I was not as good at it then as I am now, but that was what I thought." One eye opens, regarding you. "In case you had your doubts that I was ever naive and credulous, brawd, your proof, aye? Well, it kick-started things, at any rate. I made my way back. Probably the power would've come to me when I hit puberty, had I not rushed things..."
     He is silent for a moment; the effort of talking so long without a break already has him pale and sweating a bit. Clearing his throat, Gwilym shifts position on the bed, both eyes again closed. "...It made me her enemy. I didn't really realize this or take it very seriously until when I was wandering in Winter Diamond, during the war. I caught a glimpse of her. Couldn't be sure it was her, of course - another dark-cloaked figure, oh, look, identifying marks, no, not so much. But I had a suspicion. And when I got back here, I knew. There, maybe, she could move through the back alleys and the war without me being sure, but here? Here, I know who lives in what shadows. I knew."
     Gwilym coughs, clearing his throat again, then takes the glass, finally, for a sip. It burns going down, and he shivers from it. "...She was set against me, Io. I wasn't sure what the devil she was up to. Until mum went on bed rest, and I figured it out. The last while - nine months for mum, gods know how long for us, she's been in the shadows, sucking on Pedwyr's energy whenever mum came here, sucking on mum's the rest of the time. She was going to bide her time, I suppose. Kill mum and Pedwyr during the birthing, or whatever she could get away with. So." He lifts a hand, lets it fall again. "Didn't want to waste time. I started hunting her."

     There is no recrimination, no admonitions, not even the hint of a lecture. As your confession spills forth, you too tired to deny it, Iowerth simply listens. His hand resting on your leg, he rubs to reassure you, to comfort you as you show the taxation it takes to speak it. What good would lectures do? You have suffered enough.
     Christ, we're so fucking alike. It is the thought that crosses his mind as Iowerth bends his head with a sigh. He looks back at you as you speak about Pedwyr, about the energies. Suddenly it becomes clear why his mother was suffering, why Peter was suffering. And that they manage to survive, it seems, may be due to your private battle.
     You should have told me. His eyes say it, his hand echoes it as it lightly grasps you. Iowerth exhales, his focus tightening. No, there is no point in lecture. The past is the past. His concern is for the present and the future. Yours. Mom's. Peter's. "Go on, Gwilym," he quietly urges. And you can tell from his gaze that he is already beginning to strategize. Your words are put into places like markers on a map. When the story is done, the way to end it will be known. That is how his mind works.

     "I have been fighting - god, I don't know how long." Gwilym's eyes are closed again, and he lies back against the pillows as if the idea of rising is far beyond his achievement. "I managed to take brief breaks twice, but I could not stay away long. And each time I did, when I came back, she was stronger. The first time, when you needed me. Then, when mum finished giving birth - you know, my fly-by?" He chuckles, a hoarse sound. "Duw, that was hard. I was convinced if I stayed any longer, everyone would see it and know, somehow. As it was, I had to get back - I didn't want to take time out for fear she would get a leg up in my absence."
     He's silent for a moment, and he opens his eyes; looking not at you but at the ceiling. It is a firm and unwavering gaze which does not cease, but conveys nonetheless all the anger and frustration and despair normally kept bottled within. "I fought her creatures and destroyed the strongholds she'd built in shadow. And I blocked her ways in and out of shadow like so many rat holes. And when I couldn't keep fighting, I made it so that none could enter or leave those shadows by any means. I slid out and closed that last door. She's trapped in there and can't get out - but until I open the way again, neither can anyone get in... including me."
     He shrugs, then, eyelashes flickering, and he closes his eyes with a low exhale. "There isn't much more to it than that, Io. I came here. I don't even really remember it, but I made my way here - I suppose I collapsed at that point. If you want the medical prognosis, the General can likely tell you that."

     "I'll speak to him in a bit," he assures you of that. "She's trapped, but can she be killed? Is it possible to kill a death-dealer's daughter?" It is in interesting (maybe not so) philosophical dilemma. "She cannot stay trapped forever. You of all people know that traps are neither permanent nor lasting. And if she has attacked mom before, I imagine it's a safe bet she'd go after her and Peter again. We can't allow even the possibility of that. What do you think can combat her? You cannot do it alone, Gwilym."
     Even if you could, by his look you quite see he's not going to let you face her alone. This is no longer your battle but one in the interest of not only the entire family but in the interest of all the kingdoms to defeat. "What are her weaknesses? You've been able to exploit them at least this far. While she's contained, she must be, if she can be, destroyed."
     What's done is done, brother. We cannot linger on that, do not let it sap your strength. I need you now to be strong. I need your guidance and your abilities, as your crown prince and future king. His hand pats your hand then squeezes it. "You will have to open the way and we'll have to potentially free her to finish her. I'd rather have my cake and eat it too, as you know. How long do you think you can contain her and is it weakening you further in order to do so?"
     "I hate to ask you all of this, and to demand so much of you when you are clearly not well, and have clearly suffered to right the situation, but for me... there is no time to waste with such danger," Iowerth says, his hand reaching up to brush back your hair.

     "Anything that lives can be killed, Io. She is no exception. How to kill her? I do not know. I know she is weakened when her access to this realm is cut off. It's why I've kept it sealed - and oes, keeping it sealed is slowing down my recovery, but under the circumstances..." Gwilym smiles at you lopsidedly, eyes opening. There is pain in his eyes, jagged edges of emotional hurt lurking in the brilliant green. It has been a long time. "Under the circumstances," he exhales, "it's the best thing. For now, at least."
     You know I will do what I can, Io. I'm not lingering. Much. I just want mum and Peter to be alright, oes? I'm just tired is all. Once I get some sleep, I'll be fine. You know as much as I do about it, now, except for her forces. She has spiders and lizards - the spiders which were the witch-queen's, Winter Diamond's. I am thinking that is why she went there - to collect those for herself. Picking the corpse of the broken kingdom before it was even cold. And the lizards - well, they're nasty. I've reduced most of her forces; she doesn't seem able to make more. I think she is scavenger, more than anything...

     "You, the General and I will discuss some options. It may be necessary to involve mother or papa," Davydd, "... but I am going to see if we can handle this without them first. If we need to involve them, then I will explain what is needed. But for now, I think you should rest a bit. She is trapped and appears to be so until you open the door again." That seems settled for now.
     There are more matters to discuss and certainly to resolve, but he does not wish to push you to the point of exhaustion. They will be fine. Mother is already doing much better. And she says Pedwyr is as well. Thank you for telling me. Do you know how upset I'd be had you killed yourself trying to do it all on your own? I'd be inconsolable... and pissed off! He smiles after that. I'd probably want to revive you just so I could kill you myself. Iowerth takes your hand, squeezing it again. "Don't hang yourself for the past... and learn from it instead. I tell myself the same damn thing. I carry the world on my shoulders, too, brawd. Even my shoulders and yours combined can't hold the weight of the world."
     His hand lands upon your shoulder, needing to keep that contact with you. "I am going to stay here with you. At least for tonight. I will tell mother that you are more tired than anything after a bit of a scrape. I won't go into details. She'll likely be relieved to hear you're alright. I'll tell her you'll come see her in a couple of days. I'll do what I can to hold her off."
     Glancing around the room, his mouth slanting a smile, Iowerth looks again to you. "Do you think he'd mind if I slept in here?" Chuckling quietly, he cocks up both eyebrows in blithe curiosity, theatrical as it is. "I hate to make the man sleep on his couch, but..." Periwinkle eyes flicker with a wink. "It'll be alright," he whispers. "I want to see you smile. Smiling's the only way to really cheat death and his daughters anyway, yeah?"

     "I don't die that easily, brawd." Gwilym smiles at you, but it is a faint, lopsided shadow of a smile. "But you should ask da in on it. He... knows the shadow roads. He can pick up where I ..." He closes his eyes, the smile fading. You know how sentences like that end. You can see, perhaps, the self-loathing it prompts, is prompted by it.
     I promise not to hang myself, he rattles off to you lightly. And to keep trying not to get caught so that I can keep my neck out of the hangman's noose. Nice noose, pretty noose, and all that. No ball and chain either, see? Unlike you, I haven't even got to have a wife just yet.
     He reaches for the glass, draining the contents. It relaxes him a little; with a sigh, he melts back in against the covers. "Duw, oes. Go tell mum I'm alright. No point letting this sour her milk. Pedwyr would never forgive me."
     He rubs his eyes and then drapes his arm against closed eyelids. "It's a big bed," he drawls. "Nothing to stop both of you from sleeping on it at the same time. Or you could always exile me to the couch. I'm the one who's caused all this fuss - utterly unnecessary, oes? I'll be fine, Io. I always bounce back, don't I?"

     "Stop it," his voice stresses, rising a bit in pitch, "... pick up where you, what, failed? You're the only one who thinks this. And you're cutting your own power off at the knees every time you say such things. I don't want to hear it because it's not true. I'll talk to your father if you'd rather, but I think it important that you join us. If you're physically able to." He has no patience for that sort of talk from you. You can see him frowning now, his eyes going a deeper shade of lavender.
     For a moment, he says nothing. He lets his upset drain from him in a sigh. "I'm sorry for getting upset. I just ...don't like to hear you talk about yourself that way, or even think it, Gwilym. I will talk to mom in a moment and let you eat in peace. But I'm staying here tonight. I will see her tomorrow and calm her worries."
     There is a mild look of... dear god... as you mention being three to a bed. "The things you do to get your way," Iowerth drawls, as if this were merely an elaborate setup to fulfill a pleasurable dream. "You're keeping to the bed. I insist on it. I'm certain Ramanthus... the general," he corrects himself, "... will insist on it. And I will... not keep you from your lover's arms." His lips twist. "Much as I'd like to." Jealousy? Perhaps a little. He is his father's son. The thoughts that squirm in his brain shouldn't be between brothers. "He's probably wondering what's going on in here as it is. Shall I fetch him for you?"

     "It's true, though. If I hadn't been so fucking stupid back when I was twelve, we wouldn't be here, now. Duw knows, I'm not saying I'm the devil incarnate - papa gets that title, doesn't he? Just ... it could have been avoided." Gwilym keeps his eyes closed, lips twisting wryly. "Don't worry, Io. The inside of my brain isn't a pretty place. You do not need to handle it."
     His eyes finally open, one hand reaching out loosely for yours. "Why?" He looks to you searchingly. Duw, Io... you know how I feel about you. What do you want? For me to foreswear other lovers and be with you, only? There is no real anger in the tone. Surprise, yes. Confusion and turmoil, yes. But he is too tired. He cannot make sense of things. His hands come up to rub at his face again.
     "Let him in, oes. He can tell us how badly I'm hurt, if I am. I am sure I will be fine. I am just tired." Too tired to get out of bed. Too tired to get dressed for your arrival. Gwilym rakes his hands through his hair. "...I am starting to get hungry. That's a good sign, oes?"

     No, that's not what I'm saying. I was joking. With a little jealousy thrown in. He snorts a laugh. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, "you're in no frame of mind to find that funny. And Christ on a stick, Gwilym, no one knows better when they're twelve. Of course it could have been avoided, but what twelve year old on earth or here is going to know better? Or choose better? I'd say you've done a pretty fucking amazing job considering your odds of success. So..." his hand lands squarely on you as if to drive the point home. Let. It. Go.
     "I'll let him in. You should eat first, then we'll hear the doctor's report. I'm getting a bit peckish myself. I might have to whip something up if there's not enough. I want to see you eat like you mean it. You need all the strength and energy you can get. Is there anything else I can do for you? Lend you power or something? I don't want to make anything worse..."
     Iowerth smiles gently. "Oes, it's a good sign." And finally he rises, crossing to the door and opening it. The general is seated on the sofa, reading a report of the day's events, which he missed. He looks up and then stands as Iowerth appears. "We're ready for supper, I think," he announces. "And if you don't mind, General, I would like to stay here while my brother recovers. We have some planning to do." Iowerth opens the door widely, holding it open as a servant wheels in a food cart full of all manners of things, but primarily meats and vegetables.
     Ramanthus follows the cart in, looking from brother to brother. "Of course, your highness. It would be my honor to host you. I think by tomorrow, his energy should be much improved. The poison is gone. The final threads of its damage should be restored by tonight. But he really needs to clear a full plate tonight," his voice lifts slightly, directed toward you, Gwilym. He nods to the departing servant and begins to ready a plate for the ailing prince. His eyes are on you, Gwilym, not your brother. There is gentleness there. "I believe I even heard you say you were hungry." Though I was not eavesdropping, his thought is likewise set before you. With a twinkle of a silver eye.

Posted by rowan at August 25, 2006 05:11 PM