"Give me two..."
     "... One, and two. So you've been in discussions with General Hippolytus? Raise two silver..."
     "Actually yes... call... he made some recommendations to me about the layout of the coliseum. I will be offering pan-world games, our own Olympics if you will. He has already stated he would participate. I'm looking forward to a centaurian chariot race."
     "That does sound interesting... call..."
     The conversation flow easily from one to the other, a to-and-fro as cards come and go and coins pile in the table's center. General Ramanthus sits upon the curved-arm thick-cushioned chair (which Gwilym should remember well), his clothing casual -- today a white tunic with silver thread and white breeches. Across from him sits the crown prince, in his midnight leather trousers and a princely tunic with sapphires as buttons. This tunic is undone, letting his many tattoos act as the mainstay of his garment. A decanter of brandy sits on the round table in between them, and each man is currently nursing a hand of poker more than his drink.
     Behind them, the door to the General's bedroom remains open so that each man may in turn, which it is not his turn to place a bet or bet's answer, look in on the heretofore bed-ridden prince of shadows. In turns, grey eyes then periwinkle flicker toward you. There is knowing in both, affection in both, and ...yes... desire in both, though desire has been held in check for longer than either cares to admit. Separately, that is.
     "I have what they term a royal flush," Iowerth smiles, his hand spreading his cards for the General to witness. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence."
     The general makes a sound in his throat (as if he doubts the coincidence and the prince's "luck"), but with a smirk surrenders his cards, and his coins. "You have been letting your brother teach you cards, I see..."

     "You bastards." Gwilym grumbles from his bed. "If you're going to play dragon poker, the least you could do is get in here and play with me."
     He is propped up on the bed, face presently flushed, frustration evident in the glint of emerald eyes. He has already thrown a pillow at the door, but he knows you both well enough to know that if he throws too many things, you will simply humour him; the items will remain on the floor.
     He is feeling better, obviously. He has energy to complain. His appetite is still not excellent, but he has been eating regularly. Right now, he is anything but hungry, however; he is restless. Caged. And he is not someone who ever has been able to cope with feeling imprisoned...
     "That does it, I'm seceding," Gwilym announces, folding his arms over his chest. "I hereby declare this bed an independent nation. Approaching it will be regarded as an act of war."

     "You were sleeping so peacefully earlier," the general offers in that sensible voice of his, "... I didn't want to wake you with my outbursts," as if, "... at your brother's cheating. Do you feel well enough to join us?"
     Leaning back, Iowerth grins at you. "I can feel your skin crawling from here. Why don't you come out and join us? Sit in the chair, join in a hand. There's brandy." Your two lovers share a look and Iowerth begins shuffling the cards again. If you are strong enough to bitch, you're strong enough to scratch that itch of yours. Come on then.
     The General inclines his head, looking around your brother's form to you. "Though if my bed is now your nation, shall you allow any...diplomatic relations?"
     Iowerth chuckles at that. "Let's all get rolling beds and have a war. Fuck diplomacy..."
     The General seems mildly ruffled at Iowerth's insistence upon 'salty' language but moves past it easily enough. "Do you need a hand, your highness?" Or anything else I might be able to offer you? You know what he's feeling. He's made that clear when he's held you, wrapped his arms around you and kissed the side of your neck. Nothing else passed between you but the energy of love's desire.
     Your brother gave you your space, sleeping in the common area on a sofa. The sofa is still piled with the blankets and pillows he used.

     "The hell with both of you," the younger prince drawls, throwing back the bedclothes. "I will take over the world without you." That he's naked doesn't seem to occur to him until that moment. "Fuck, that's cold. Where's that robe?"
     Salty language is but one of the things he shares with his brother. Gwilym rises to his feet, hopping from one foot to the other and almost falling over as he grabs the blanket. The hell with robes; from the linens he formulates a toga, standing there with hands on his hips. It's a little bit of an effort, but he's strong enough that he can at least pretend it isn't. Let's not talk about itching, brother mine.
     Gwilym strides towards you both with the undisguised eagerness of someone who has been confined to a bed. He comes through the doorway, looking between you. "Diplomacy is all well and good, but there's nothing for the ego like a good old-fashioned conquest," he cracks. He looks between you both with a halfways smile. Knowing emerald eyes look from one to the other. "I'll have a drink, and if I may, something more to eat, if you wouldn't be opposed. And if it's all the same to you, I'll just stand for a little; I've been lying down and sitting up so much, my balls've almost forgotten what gravity's like."
     He moves past the chairs, a hand lightly brushing the General's shoulder, bumping Iowerth's. You two ... I'm touched and flattered, but you're making a lot of fuss and bother over nothing very much, you know...
     "So what're the stakes? Dragons wild?"

     "Dragons are always wild," says the seadragon himself, a serpentine smile on his face. He lets you and your lover have your moment, his eyes going to the cards in his hands. He has a nice shuffling technique. He should -- you taught him. As you speak your wish, your wish is answered by a spread of food that appears on the other low tables. Meats and breads, pastries and buttered rolls. There is cider (apple and pear) as well as the brandy in the nearby decanter.
     "It is good to see you up and about," the General notes quietly. His hand comes out to touch you in answer for the brush to his shoulder. "And to hear that boastful, glorioso voice of yours. It has been too long and too quiet here, Gwilym Gwyn Garu." Grey eyes look across to your considerate brother. "You speak, and the crown prince answers gallantly. I'm certainly not opposed to you getting stronger, no indeed." Ramanthus laughs (in his Yggsdrasil way) as you mention balls and gravity. He cuts a look to you, and slants a stealing grin. "They could probably use with a change of scenery."
     "You're not going to take them out for a walk are you?" Iowerth drolls. "Be sure to let me know." He makes a pretense of being disgusted by such a notion, but chuckles at the act. "We've been playing silver stakes, nothing too painful. Now that you're playing, I suggest we bump it down to copper. I want to be able to afford to go back to my ship eventually. Dragons wild, as usual, though let's toss a little something extra in. Nine trumps. We'll call it the King's Pleasure." Periwinkle eyes shimmer in a wink as he begins to deal.
     Why be flattered. We tend you because we love you, your brother answers you quite easily. You needed us, we're here. That's how this works. You'll return the favor again, no doubt, when I've done something else I regret. Until then, think nothing of it. It's the way of things.
     Ramanthus takes a moment to look at you as your brother deals. His gaze wanders the curve and fold of each sheet of his that covers you. He smiles, moreso in his eyes than with his lips, and he pours another round of brandies. You are something very much to me, he thinks, allowing his thoughts to drift upward, audible to you because you know how to find them.

     You both receive a faint smile, and he eases himself into a seat. There is a certain wariness which is not on display; he is between his two lovers, both male. One who knows about the other, and one who does not. And the one who does...
     And here I thought it was difficult wandering in shadow with a daughter of death out for my blood...
     "Oes, oes, well, deal me a set of cards, we'll see if I can't steal some money off you both." Gwilym reaches for some of the pear cider, with a glint to his eyes. To his brother, he sends, I want to test something, when I am better. When this is over. When there is time for me to have you to myself for a little while. The thought is mentioned, then put away again, and he reaches for a buttered roll. Already, he is salivating.
     "I will be fine, you two worry like old women." The prince scoffs as he tears a bite from his bread. His hands are both busy for the moment; the cards remain unexamined until he sets his cider down with a quiet belch. "You'll make it back to your ship, Io, just maybe without your shirt, oes?"
     To the General, he sends a different message, with a brief glance and equally brief smile. Sorry about the mess. I will be better and out of your hair soon enough. The bread is demolished, the cards picked up and examined. "I raise."
     Now cider is traded for brandy, and Iowerth gets the bulk of his attention again. It's still foolish. All this fuss over nothing. Look at you, sitting here when you've got so much on your plate. Aloud, Gwilym asks, "So ... you've headed off da somehow, I take it?"

     It is a bit complicated, isn't it. Here you exist in the center of a triangle. One side knows the triangle exists; the other does not. But one is a love that can exist at least in partial shadow. The other must be closeted even within shadows, put out of mind so that no minds may grasp it.
     A fiery eyebrow comets skyward. "You'll have to have my pants. I can't lose this shirt. It's my Aren't I glorious to look at and don't you want to marry me shirt." His mouth slides in a sidelong smile as he deals five cards each. He sets the deck aside and antes up. Two silver. An experiment? Sure. Why not. You know how I always liked the lab.
     The General tosses in his two silver, smirking at your brother's sense of humor, and turning that smile upon you with a bit of a difference. And what if I do not want you out of my hair, prince? What then? "You will be better soon, you are better now," Ramanthus concedes. "We will take care of the business before us and you can forget all about your convalescence. But in the meantime," he leans in, grey eyes beaming, "...enjoy it while you have it..."
     The first round, everyone looks at their cards. You raise. The General calls with his poker face resolutely on (that blank look you often get that is never as blank as it seems), and your brother the prince likewise calls, but tosses another silver in. "I see your bet and raise five silver." Iowerth leans back in his chair a moment, looking at you. "I have indeed. He was relieved you are fine, and mother is glad as well. They send their love. Not that they could have really done much. Mother's tied to Peter, or rather Peter's tied to her, and Rhodri looks rather exhausted himself. He wants to see you. I told him you would visit as soon as you were able."
     All the more reason to be sitting here with you. What else am I going to do? Listen to women prattle on about how lovely they are: pick me, pick me! What's another week. I've put them off since mother's labor. As for the rest, it's work. You're my brother. You come first.
     The General glances up, poker face still intact as he looks between you both. He hears the private royal information and files it away in the area of his brain marked 'confidential'. "I am glad to hear that she and the baby are doing better," he offers.

     It is complicated, and more than complicated. How dare his heart be torn and yet so not torn all at once? How do people deal with this?
     Well... this is the most compelling argument for monogamy I've encountered yet...
     We will see if this experiment works. But it will have to wait. Since right now... Right now, here we are. Too many obstacles in the way. Remind me later.
     Gwilym smiles a little, eyes down upon his cards. "I will try to enjoy it, General," he murmurs. I will enjoy it more when there is one or the other of you here, instead of both. As much as I tease my brother, I don't know how you would respond to knowing that my brother is my other lover. Nor am I convinced that I in truth would want to share you, my General. A thief is not known for readily giving up that which he's stolen.
     He does not send such thoughts, nor put them where they may be easily stolen. You can humour me later by conquering my new kingdom, my General. Taking back that which I've declared mine, hm? You know how much I like you in armour.
     It brings warmth to his gaze. He looks up from his cards, glancing to you; you can see it there for that furtive moment before he returns to food and the game in progress. "Call." Another five silver.
     "Diolch," Gwilym tells his brother lightly. "I'm sure I'll only escape da's iron fist in the velvet glove by dint of him being too tired thanks to the newborn, but good to know all the same. And mother is ... doing well? Better?" He looks to you. Please, let it have worked.
     I know what you should do for picking a bride, brawd, but you'll never listen to me if I tell you. And Duw... if we sit here being so terribly polite to one another, I should go back to bed, and draw the covers up over my head. I am stifling. "How about papa? Does he know yet?"

     Your brother is most astute. So is the General, but the General does not have the same level of knowledge. "Papa knows there's something I'm not saying, as usual. But he said for me to handle it. If I need him, to call him. He's up to his eyeballs in Things London." With a sigh, "I fold. So," he offers, sitting back and looking at his brother. "...you are well enough, hmm? For me to return to the ship? I must admit the longer I stay here, the more it seems a commune." His mouth holds a smirk and he begins pocketing his winnings from the General.
     The General tosses more silver in, "I call...and raise two... one card please, dealer," he asks of Iowerth. Iowerth deals him an additional card and rises. "I relinquish the dealing to you," he says to his brother as his claps his hand to his brother's arm. "Do not face her without me. The two of you call me once you are ready to proceed."
     You know how I enjoy humoring you. And though I know your brother's presence has been a balm to your spirit, I will be glad for some privacy. Your General's thoughts are stronger as they are given to you. "Shall we show our cards? Prince," he says to Iowerth, "... I will send you immediate word, of course." He rises, bowing his head to Iowerth as he does, and then he returns to his seat.
     I will... see you later. After our battle, hmm? We can talk more then. Iowerth nods to the General's courtesy, clapping you on the shoulder again. "You will call me if you need anything. For now, I'm going to head back to The Draigamore. There is much to do, particularly if I'm going to have a battle to prepare for."
     Your brother shares a brief look with you as he turns to go. Definitely a third wheel.

     I am glad you worked things out, Io. Even if I won't pretend not to be jealous, myself. We are too much alike. You are going. He does not want you to go. But there it is; he is caught perpetually in Between, like any proper shadow, between Light and Dark. And just as torn...
     "I fold," Gwilym says quietly. He looks from one lover to the other, smiling faintly as he turns his cards over. He's been bluffing on an empty hand. He lacks the energy to cheat. He's good at knowing it, I think. Without anyone saying anything, he's going.
     He looks down, then nods and looks back up. After the battle. His chair is pushed back, and Gwilym leans back, head tipping back, eyes closed. "I think," he says indistinctly, "I've had enough poker. If it's all the same with you both, I'll have a bath. Safe travels, Io, hm?"

     "Oh, I hope not too safe, brother, or I shall forget how to sail properly," comes the ease of his voice. "I will see you shortly, Gwilym. General," he says to Ramanthus. And yes, your brother is much like you: he hates to fold. He will be going back to an empty bed on an empty ship, while all his lovers are otherwise occupied.
     And he doesn't much like it...
     But what's he to do? Force his way in? Reveal the forbidden relationship out of jealousy? That is not his way. You wanted to be with your General, he understands that. And your General wants you -- he can very much sympathize.
     The doors to the common area close and Iowerth's steps soften as they become distant. The General looks to you, setting the cards down. He was also bluffing. (If you were to turn over your brother's hand, you would see that his hand would have been the clear winner: he had two pair, jacks and nines.) "I have no mind for cards, I must admit. And, yes, your brother has always had the gift of being astute. Highly perceptive."
     Ramanthus rises and he offers you his hand, his arm. "I did not mean to make him feel ...out of place. If I have, I beg your forgiveness. I'll accompany you to the bath. I could do with a soak and another brandy. Quiet... with you..."
     Yes, he needed privacy. To be able to show you the fullness of his affection.

     "My mind is somewhere else," Gwilym admits quietly. "I don't know where." It is divided between too many. As is my heart. "He's chosen his way out; don't worry, you haven't offended anyone. Him or me." The emerald gaze lifts from his brother's departure gradually. "You'll have my attention now. As undivided as I can make it, oes?"
     His smile is faint. He is tired, still - and troubled by thoughts which he will not share. The money is nudged to the center, the cards swept up, glanced at - of course, he had to look - and set aside before he rises with the aid of your arm. "Shall we?"
     I know what I want... maybe someday I'll find it, but for now, I'll have to make do with the knowing...

Posted by rowan at August 25, 2006 07:53 PM