Having killed my oldest enemy, you'd think I'd be more ecstatic - that I'd feel something, anyway. Happiness, thank god it's over, anger, how dare the bitch have hurt my family, resignation, irritation, dejection that I'm suddenly without an enemy. But I don't feel any of those things. It's as if it was done with, and my mind rejects having anything more to do with it.
     Instead, my thoughts turn to you, brawd. Isn't it always the way? I do not know what to do about this. I have been thinking about it, all through my convalescence - the first one, and now this one. But I am done with running from it.
     Instead, I go to you...
     He arrives on foot, not on horseback, sneaking onto your ship without the aid of his shadows. Both to keep in practice (relying too much on one power can lead to the decay of others) and because for the moment, he is avoiding his shadows. Not entirely - but he is not yet ready to return to his roads.
     Your brother makes his way over riggings in the form of a raven, landing on the prow and fixing one black and shiny eye on the deck. No sign of you; he takes wing, heading through an open portal and down into the belly of the ship. Where are you...
     He lands soundlessly, becoming the figure of a man. He is not in armour tonight. A black cloak hangs from his shoulders, the hood presently drawn up, worn over black silk shirt and trousers alike, soft leather boots protecting his feet. Where are you...
     Gwilym sighs, soundlessly of course, easing his way down a flight of stairs and into your chambers. By now, I'm sure you already know I'm here, Io. And I'm not patient tonight. Where are you? Am I interrupting you? Did you bring someone home with you and thus I'm interrupting? Should I have stayed away?

     I am as I have been for months. Solitary. You are on the wrong ship, however. Look stern starboard. From the many windows of the captain's quarters, you may see a flicker of light dead center of the stern windows. A lantern's waving light that shows you, if you did not catch it before, the body of another enormous ship. It is coming from the deck of The Drake, the new galleon every bit as big as The Draigamore. It is another eighty-gun ship of the line, its sails tucked in for a rest even as The Draigamore's are. Around the two ships, where anchors sit heavily upon the sea floor, the waters ripple, churning as if on a low boil. A whirlpool in a constant state of beginning, but not yet of sufficient strength to swallow them whole.
     The Drake is not as dark as the High King's former ship. Its wood is stained a rich mahogany, treated with pitch where needed. The veneer gives it a nice cherrywood glow during the day, quite drake-like. And the figurehead is every bit as draconic, being a brilliantly painted red Drake with fire breath of gold-leaf wood. Its difficult to see at night however, though a part of your brother's flickering light shows a shimmer of it.
     And...no... I'm glad you're here. Come aboard. Iowerth hooks the lantern on an iron grip, and he shows up beneath its light, leaning at the prow of the vessell, the Drake figurehead beneath him. He's rather casual and disheveled, but it's late and he's been working. Besides, he's the crown prince -- he doesn't have to dress to impress. Satisfied that you see him, he turns from that light, turning the oil wick down for a low glow, and he disappears beneath the many ropes and masts of the ship, heading one may presume to the stern of the new vessel and the new captain's chamber.
     Found on the rear of the vessel as with any galleon of this class, the captain's quarters are immense. A brilliant red door (rather than a hatch) leads from the deck of the ship and to the solid stairs down to the equally solid floor. All of the wood is exactly as the exterior -- cherry wood with gold leaf and paint. The gold is real gold and it gives the surroundings an ember-like quality, burnished. As with The Draigamore there are tons of windows, offering a view of the sea on two sides. They can be covered (and are covered now) for privacy.
     The furnishings are heavy wood with overstuffed leather, there are rugs to soften the floor beneath the captain's feet, and heavy lamps fortified to the floor so they do not pitch with the pitching of the sea. It is a good deal more practical-seeming than The Draigamor, but no less magical and no less luxurious.
     Iowerth is pouring two glasses of a ruddy liquid, more burnished than wine -- it must be brandy. He is clothed in a simple silk shirt, midnight blue, which has been left untied. His trousers are blue leathers, but an older pair and thus a softer shade of blue, more cobalt now than midnight. His feet are bare, his boots visible by the wardrobe. His captain's coat rests hung over the back of the desk chair. There is only one chamber within this captain's quarters, but heavy curtains can provide some amount of privacy -- or at least to hide the papers on one's desk if one is in bed. One doesn't always want to be reminded of all that is left to do...

     Bastard. Making me have to hunt for you. There is a laugh attached to the words. With a shake of his cloak, there is a raven again in the place of a man. He takes flight, making his way from wrong ship to right ship, changing only where doors require hands for the opening. Only when he is in your presence does he change back to the form of a man...
     Gloved hands lift, lowering his hood. Brilliant emerald eyes regard you, the faint edge of a smile curling the corners of his mouth - it is lopsided. And his face looks different from when you last saw him; his hair, usually falling into his eyes, has been cut short. It is almost too short to be grabbed; it is ... different.
     The cloak is unfastened; left to hang loosely back from his shoulders, no longer shrouding him like blackened veils. "Glad to have your permission, captain," Gwilym tells you quietly, gaze still fixed on you. He looks at you as if he has not seen you in years; there is a hunger to his gaze, and at the same time, an isolation, as steadfast as a penitent denying himself bread. "You look well." Better than I suddenly feel. "Ready to conquer the world?"

     Iowerth looks at you a moment, a slow smile crawling across his features. You've cut your hair. He thinks to say -- literally. His hair always remains short, an anachronistic nod to the Modern Age in this place without Ages, modern or otherwise. It is a strange thing to say, to just say and leave there -- you've changed your hair -- but he's too busy looking at the rest of you. "You look good... well... the best I've seen you in a while," Iowerth adds. You're still aloof, but you always will be. It's your nature not to want to get caught -- or appear to be caught.
     As you mention conquering the world, periwinkle eyes light up -- as ever they have when you've mentioned mischief. "Care to join me in a drink first? I think one should salute one's accomplice with a drink before one conquers an entire world." You look so familiar (you are his twin) and yet so wonderfully strange. "Why does it feel like ... we haven't been in a room together, sharing drinks, for years?" Iowerth suddenly whispers.
     There is nothing to shield him when you look at him that way, those sideways smiles he shares. And then how and why he shares them always comes crashing down. Yet, it undoes a part of him. That part you own, that chamber of his heart where you reside both squeezes and glows with reborn fire.
     Iowerth crosses slowly over to you, the goblet (gold) offered to you. "A brandy for your good health," he murmurs. "It's good to see you, Gwilym..."

     "I've cut my hair," he agrees, looking at you, the lopsided smile twisting wryly. His aloofness is always there - always, but with you? You see through his facades, usually. You always know how to get through my shite, Io. Better than I do.
     Gwilym sighs, and now his fingers undo the remaining clasp of his cloak. The heavy material falls behind him, landing in a heap, ignored as he steps forward. Thieving fingers, slender and graceful, brush against your own in slow deliberation as he takes the goblet from you. He looks to your face as he does so, then smiles as he looks instead to the floor. "It's good to see you as well, brawd," he says softly. "A little painful, but good."
     The goblet's lifted to his lips for a sip, slow and meditative; then a sudden upturning for a gulping swallow, and he laughs, then sighs, an exhalation of brandy fumes as he steps back, turning to look around the cabin. I've missed you, Io. Even though I know I've only myself to blame for that.

     "I'm sorry," your twin replies. His hand comes out and rests a moment on the nape of your neck and then scruffs through your short hair before he pulls you in for a brotherly hug whether you want one or not. He's learned that from his own father. "It's alright," Iowerth murmurs. "I ...understand, Gwilym," he continues on as his hold recedes like an ocean wave, right after smacking against you.
     Taking a perch on the footboard of the bed and a quick swallow of the brandy, he looks at you again. "I don't want to be the one causing you to look like that. Like you want to dive in with both feet forward, and damning yourself for the same thought. I've missed you too. And I don't blame you for not talking to me... considering what a shite I've been." Precious little has passed between you since that afternoon he left the General's house in a weird, jealous, third-wheel huff. Then came the battle, and the subsequent week (or two) of recovery and another week (or two) of quiet as lives tried to get back to their normal rhythms. Whatever 'normal' means in the Otherworld.
     "I'm glad to see you looking and acting more like yourself. I've been worried about you," Iowerth softly admits as he looks into his cup and then drinks from the golden vessel. Those periwinkle eyes lift, such an odd but oddly fitting companion to the fiery red hair, cut and mussed in short, thick jags. "It was really difficult to see you so tired and to not be able to do anything. I'm glad you had Ramanthus looking after you."

     "Pfft. What're you apologising?" Gwilym snorts a little, though the hug is answered, replied to, given into and returned with a one-armed clasp around your waist. As if he could hold himself to you, you to him; but you recede much as he would himself if your positions were reversed, slipping out of grasps like waves or shadows. "Last I checked, you didn't do anything wrong."
     He swallows more brandy, emerald eyes alight upon you as you speak. As he listens. "Io... I have not been talking to anyone," Gwilym says quietly. "It isn't you; nor because of you. I just..." He sighs, eyes closed as he sags slightly, letting his head tip back. "I just have not been doing a good job of sorting out my emotions, let alone reacting to things well."
     He drinks deeply and then sets his goblet aside with a certain finality, looking at you. "More myself? I suppose, though I don't know who else I'd be," Gwilym murmurs with a wry smile. "And ... oes ... he is very ... good at that. Mind you, I think he could have made a better choice than me. But then, so could you. Of course - you did."

     He did not want to recede, his body language says that much. His hands are in motion, the golden goblet revolving like a tiny sun, his gaze lifting to you and locking, looking away only when he feels it may be too much. Finally, he sets the goblet down on the flat chest at the foot of the bed and rises, crossing back over to you. Large hand cupping the back of your neck again, he pulls you in for a hug, his forehead resting against your own.
     "Listen here, Gwilym ap Rhodri called Gwyn Garu," Iowerth whispers, "... your no man's or woman's either second choice, or bad decision. You don't even have a clue as to just how fine a man you are. Were you not my brother and our love forbidden by every law known to man and beast, you'd be my first choice. First, last and always. If I could have my way, I would. You know how I like it my way. But on this, you and I had no choice. We're brothers first by necessity and happenstance."
     He takes in a breath, lifting his head to put a kiss to your forehead. His lips are warm there as they press, resting there. You feel him breathe, his arms going around you to hold you to him. You feel that grip tighten through his own emotion (he's all too ready to express it, just like his father), and with the quick breath he takes at your skin, you know there's a tear falling somewhere.
     Or is it just some spray of the sea, come in through the window...
     "It is so frustrating to want what I want, knowing I can never have it. And I sat there and acted like a real shite, don't try to dance around it. I was throwing it in his face, I'm sure he never caught on." Iowerth's arms loosen, falling, a hand going up to pinch his nose. "I'm just like the ocean. I want to possess every ship that sails across my skin," his mouth cuts a hard slant. "You and Tiernan both. One I want and I have. The other I want... need... and can never have."
     His hand pats you and he starts to pull away, his body twisting toward his goblet and the direction of more brandy. "Of course, right now maybe I'm not in the best frame of mind to handle it well. I am a little... frustrated." He gives you a look. Yes. Frustrated. Yes. In that way. "...Christ, only I could become a sex-oracle and then go abstinent for an entire quarter. It's making me a little..." A finger taps his temple to indicate 'mental'.
     Iowerth exhales mightily, a great clearing breath as he closes his eyes. "I am sure he counts himself as fortuante as I do, Gwilym Gwyn Garu. To have the White Stag favor him so. To be able to know that you fill his heart, his bed, his home whenever you're in town. To know the wind will always blow you his way. To know that ... lopsided, rakish grin is always going to be pointed at him, and he'll always fall for it, helpless to do otherwise."

     "I know," Gwilym whispers it to you. You grasp at him, and his hands lift to your head in turn. "I know, Io. But it doesn't change how I feel, oes? Nothing changes how I feel. I'm too much like da in some ways. I don't know how to put it into words. We're foxes, oes? We long for the chase. Chasing the golden jewel of our desires... but being the object of that chase. I think it's a lack of self-preservation at its root, this desire to be caught. But why be a thief, if the chase is of no interest?"
     His hands grasp at you, palms sliding slowly along your face and to your shoulders. He squeezes you, grasp relaxing but not releasing. "He doesn't know," Gwilym reassures, advises. "I've never told him. Never given him any reason to suspect. But..."
     You pull away, and he stands where he is, closing his eyes, folding his arms tightly over his chest and hunching his shoulders. "I'm not good at this," he says softly. "Admitting things. Telling the truth. But I have to, I know, oes? Io... I don't want things to be easy. Maybe I got that from mum. I don't know. But I would choose you over him, if I could. Hell, what would I not do, if I thought it would work? It's easy for me to solve your problems. But when it's me? I go all to pieces."
     With a heavy sigh, Gwilym turns, stalking across the room and then sitting, slouching on the floor with his back to the wall, arms still folded over his chest as he draws up his knees. "I know you love Tiernan. I do not begrudge you that love. But I am jealous of him."

     Iowerth nods as you explain your feelings, your thoughts or rather how you think. He pours himself another brandy, holding out the bottle in silent query: Another for you as well? "Well, I don't think you want to go admitting this," he quietly notes. "I ... haven't told Tiernan. I'm not going to. Do I feel as though I'm unfaithful to him? Yes and no. Physically, yes... but he doesn't require monogamy, which is good for me. I don't think I'm capable of it. Emotionally... that is harder. I don't feel unfaithful in my love for him because of my love for you. You are my twin, my brother, my love for you was there before Tiernan. It's... different now, but not. We're still brothers ... just brothers who share a deep and unusual bond."
     He takes a seat on the bed with a loud exhale. His odd-colored eyes shift to you -- you're so far away, putting distance between us, I don't like it. But he understands it. "I know you are, and I understand why," he says quietly. Iowerth sips at the brandy, the bottle on the side table if you want it. "I don't know what to do about it really. Just like you don't have an answer for my jealousy and possessiveness, neither of which I have a right to have. I can't claim you for my own in front of god and everyone, so why should you be alone and miserable? I have no right to feel that way, even though I have my own jealousies. It was killing me to think you and he were making love in that bed, and me sleeping alone in mine. God, this is madness," he exclaims in a groan, his head rolling back against the headboard.
     "I don't begrudge you anything," Iowerth says quietly, his voice sudden after several moments of silence. "I want you to love, I want you to have a family of your own, I want you to above all have all the happiness our life can afford. I wish I could be the reason for it, but I know I can't be. So... I just want that for you. If I can't give it to you, then I want another woman or man, someone worthy of your love, to give it to you in my place."
     He closes his eyes. His face rugged beautiful like his father's only slightly less earthy. His eyes shut tight, then soften. "I love you, brawd, as brother and more. With all I am, there isn't a thing I wouldn't do for you. If I could solve your problems, even, I would. But even if we could love openly," periwinkle eyes open and shift their attention to you, "... you'd still be a fox in a game, and I'd still be a dragon in a cave."
     And I want to hold you now. Would you let me? I will keep my clothes on. I just miss you.

     "What would I admit? To who? Who would believe me, Io? I know how people see me. I'm very careful to maintain my bloody cover, aren't I?" Your brother chokes back a laugh, then lets his head tip back, falling to touch the wall, his eyes closed as he sighs instead. "We aren't capable of monogamy. It's not in us. At best, we'd need two, to balance us - to keep us drained enough that it's harder for us to get it up. Even then, we'll stil look. It's stamped on our genetic code, down on the bottom-most molecule, oes?"
     He lifts both hands to cover his face, groaning as he rubs his palms over his eyes. "It's not that I'm jealous of you for having Tiernan. It's not the time you two spend," he says quietly. "It's not even that you shag him rotten when I think you ought to be shagging me - it's none of that."
     It's that whether papa likes it or not, the family can know, Io. When you're with him, you can relax at least some of the time. You can be yourself, simply and wholly, around him. And with me...
     It is not spoken aloud. As if the words would be too painful, cut too deep if he said them, put his breath behind them. Gwilym rises to his feet, walking over to where he's left his goblet, where you've put the brandy. "I need a little more to drink. There was nothing for you to be jealous about, Io. We were not waiting for you to leave so we could have sex. Well - maybe Ramanthus was, though I doubt it. I was ... not good for much that night. Or the next."
     He watches golden liqueur flow from the mouth of the bottle into his goblet, then sets the bottle aside with a solid thump. "I want your happiness above my own. I don't think I'll ever be truly happy, Io, so don't hold back on yours on my account. I don't know how to go about it," Gwilym admits, picking up his glass and turning to face you, emerald eyes intent and locking upon you. "I don't. I wish I knew what could fulfill me. Who could catch me, brawd? Hunt me to earth and root me there and still know when it was time to let me go again to start the hunt again?"
     His smile is skew, lopsided, and then he looks down again, giving his head a little shake. "There's nothing you can do for it. There's nothing I can do for it except try not to withdraw from the one I love who I can't have. We are what we are. If it's incompatible or not, I don't know it - but I've always been very bad at love, Io. It's only sex I've ever claimed to be good at."
     I want you more than I want anything. But I don't want you to keep your clothes on.

     There is a quiet chuckle on the subject of monogamy. He really does feel sorry, in some way, for the woman who'll be his queen. But maybe after laying with him, she won't much care. "Yes, well... mother seems to make her husbands manage, though I hear for papa it is... more of a struggle. Fortunately, Tiernan doesn't have an issue with it. Well, we couldn't be together if he did. I'd feel too confined." Iowerth grins slowly, his mouth spreading wide. "And he'd be constantly exhausted."
     He gestures to the bottle of brandy with one hand as his other lifts the golden cup to his own mouth. Iowerth drains the goblet with a swallow, then takes up the bottle after you've finished your pouring, refilling his own. He has a desire to be drunk, among other things. "I understand," Iowerth puts his voice to it. "It's just ...knowing that we can never be open around others, claim one another." He nods slowly. "We'll have to ... try to adjust," he murmurs, looking to his cups. "We'll have to just do our best, brawd."
     Periwinkle shimmers as he looks to you. "Well, true enough. You were in rough shape. And, yes, he was wanting you. It was pretty fucking obvious. At least to me. Just sour grapes on my part, Gwi. I was missing you, missing Tiernan on top of it all, and feeling a third wheel, unable to show Ramanthus that I needed you too. Unable to show you, most of all, that I needed you too."
     "As for fulfillment," Iowerth continues, his head rolling against the headboard again, gesturing you to take a seat beside him on the bed. It is a large bed, with heavy headboard and footboard -- solid oak, cherry-stained with brushed gold like the rest of the ship. The bedding is thick linen, a stuffed duvet, the bedding red and gold. "You probably won't know till you see it, meet her or him. There must be a fox out there for you, fox or vixen. I just.. hope for us," he emphasizes, "... that we can avoid withdrawing from one another. We can't be open with the world, but we must be open with one another. As difficult as it is."
     Come to bed with me. At least where I can hold you, hmm? He reclines, his upper body propped up by the many pillows of the bed. His legs lie long, stretched out. With a last swallow of brandy, Iowerth sets his heavy goblet aside, his arms opening to receive you.

     "Mother is a rare breed." His boots are kicked off, and he sets his goblet down, pulling his gloves off one at a time. "Duw love her, but I don't want to marry a woman like her. I don't think I could stand it."
     Leather drops onto leather; gloves, meet boots. He picks up his goblet, the bottle surrendered to you. "I don't know why or how it is that da feels no urge to stray. Well - I take it back," Gwilym says quietly. "I do know. I just..." He shakes his head as if to clear it of an angry buzzing. "Why is this so hard?"
     The goblet is set down again, and he moves over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it and drawing up one leg, turning his head to look at you with his smile gone into hiding. "It is what it is," he says quietly; he looks at you, and then he looks away, and his head tips back with a harsh laugh. "I wish I knew a way to make it easier, Io. Around you, I feel the most myself. But we can't seclude ourselves off alone together, and we can't seclude ourselves from each other. So I don't know what to do. Maybe some genius will strike me eventually, but I feel like I'm doing Ramanthus a disservice and failing you."
     He straightens, stretching himself out on his back and closing his eyes. Then he turns towards you, lying on his side, leaning in until his forehead touches to your chest. It goes against my nature for me to say openly what I feel. I can talk endlessly about anything - and I often do. But not often about things which are important to me. It's taken me so long to get to where even with you I can be this honest, Io. And even then I'd rather see my blood on your hands from your reaching into my chest to drag my heart out of me. Why not? My heart is in your hands anyway.

     "I think all men want a home. Often, women represent this. Most often, in fact," an arm surrounds you, and then his body turns so both arms can surround you. "It's hard because it's hard. Hard to allow yourself to be vulnerable, especially for you, being a thief by nature. Your da's had some six centuries to become monogamous. You should be a bit easier on yourself," he murmurs. His mouth brushes against your forehead and he closes his eyes. "Hmm... it is what it is," he speaks against your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.
     That connection. It ties around your waist and his in a golden rope, shimmering between you. He feels it. He dare not hum around you for what he might see and where he might go, but it is no less strong even without the siren's song. Lowering his head a little, his nose is level to your nose. Periwinkle gleams, sea-foam green pushed to the outer edges, filled with lavender too.
     "I sometimes feel the same for Tiernan," he admits softly. "It's natural to feel this way. I would say only ... what I do is concentrate on him when I'm with him. I give him my attention, my love, my heart, my time. If you are with Ramanthus as completely as you can when you are with him, how is that doing him a disservice? I do not think he would expect monogamy. He probably only wishes to adore you with how he feels. Who wouldn't want to adore you?" Iowerth says suddenly, smiling, his lashes half-masting over his colorful eyes. "You are handsome, delightful, an amazing lover, amusing, and so seemingly impossible to catch. So let him," Iowerth brushes his mouth to your mouth, "...let him adore you as you deserve to be adored. Let him love you and enjoy him in return."
     There is magical static at the brushing of lips. He closes his eyes to it, his mouth strongly suckling at your bottom lip in a sudden, tugging kiss. The kiss parts after a moment's enjoyment. Then don't say it but don't hide your heart from me. When you withdraw... a part of me goes with you. It is... so much better ...at least for us... if we are truthful with one another. We have enough secrets, Gwi, with the rest of the world. I don't want secrets between us...

     "It's hard because I want what I want and I am not good at coping with not having what I want," your brother grouses, his arm tightening around your waist. "Why do you think I became a thief in the first place, if not motivated by the urge to get what I otherwise couldn't have? It began with fruit and meat pies, Io. My slippery slope to damnation, mark my words."
     His hand comes up, cupping your face as he lifts his gaze, settling with you so that he can look at you from so close. "If there were only one of me, Io... I would still want to be with you. I won't lie and say I would never be tempted. But if I had to narrow my world down... I know who and what I would choose. That bothers me, you know."
     He chuckles, the sound caught in the back of his throat, eyes drifting shut "Bah," Gwilym rolls out, so much like his papa for a moment. "Stop with the flattery. You know it's wasted on me. Any virtue in me is there by accident, and if you're still seeing that after all the messes I've made, I should call da and papa and warn 'em the kingdom's in unsafe hands."
     He rolls towards you, suddenly tangling his arms and legs with yours. Hands cup your face, his lips framing your mouth for a kiss. I don't know how to live without the movement, Io. It's not hiding, exactly. Riddle me this. The earth turns and the ocean and the shore meet, oes? But if the earth is turning and the waves are moving, who's to say if it's the ocean chasing the land, or the land chasing the ocean? That's what I want, Io.

     "You never could take a compliment," Iowerth drolls. He smiles at you -- he saw that coming -- and half rolls so he's mostly on his back but partially turned toward you. An arm around you holds you close as he looks up at the ceiling. When he turns his head toward you, your foreheads nearly touch again. His arm around you shifts so his hand can move through your hair. "You need the tide more than I do," he murmurs. "How strange is that. You need to move forward and back on your terms, and you need a lover who understands this. Who knows how to come for you and wrap their tidal arms around your legs. But let you go, ebbing away when you feel them holding you too close."
     Iowerth closes his eyes, his fingers tiding and ebbing in your hair and against your scalp. The ship seems to be bobbing on the waters in the same rhythm. Slowly, he bends his knee, his foot flat on the bed, and his thigh keeps the same time. He could sleep like this, and yet he is not tired. But for this moment, there is such peace.
     "Maybe," his voice is quiet as it posits, "... we can have what we want better if we...let go of the need to flaunt it. It is difficult," he opens his eyes, and he smiles at you, that slight but meaningful smile, "... not to want to flaunt it, to be daring, to be bold. For us... it is difficult. But... if we could get past that need... maybe we could get closer to this... push-pull that you crave and the discretion we both require. No, we cannot trumpet it loudly, or even softly, or even at all. No, during the public fondling festivals, we can't pile into one another. That will always be case, Gwilym. But if we allow ourselves moments like this, could that not allow us to have what we want? And won't I be in your life regardless?"
     Periwinkle eyes half-mast as his chin lifts, his head tips, his mouth leaves a kiss upon your forehead. "Through all time, I will always love you. In my weird and heavily-layered way. You are my other self, so alike, so opposite. No one can take that away, not even us in our ego or stupidity could put an end to that. And look at this," he grins, "... we are in a bed and we don't even have our hands down our trousers. Our love is greater even than that," Iowerth whispers.
     His leg yet moves, back and forth. His fingers yet uncurl forward and back. There is a rhythm to his grasp that still echoes that of the sea beneath you. It is like the universe is rocking you, holding you, comforting you, and strength is on all sides. His sigh moves against your forehead, playing through your hair. "No matter how many you hold, or how many I hold, this will always be home. I have made you a suite of chambers in my great palace, a suite adjoining my own. Where you can come and go as you damn well please. A place where we can meet and be like this if we choose...when we choose..."
     A sudden thought comes to him: "Would you like to see it, brawd? Our future home?"

     "Compliments are like frills. Pleasant, sometimes pretty, but generally unnecessary and usually there to compensate for some defect in the one who has them. I prefer my defects be covered up in other ways." Gwilym grins, that lopsided smile that goes skew at the edges to show that it's real. Brilliant emeralds glint in his eyes, the green fields and apples of Avalon visible behind them as a rolling landscape that threatens forever.
     Some people need to swim, Io. That's all. Others need to drown. Which do you think I am, really? Go on - it's not that hard to guess...
     His hands move against your waist, dredging up your shirt so that fingers and palms can slide in against warm skin. He rubs against your spine, a soothing motion more than an overtly sexual one, eyes drifting closed again. "I think that whatever we try to decide, it will all change again anyway. Every time we have tried to come to an answer, it proves not enough, or not quite right. We're locked into a struggle, Io, and one I don't see any clear way out of - somehow, it's tied to us." Gwilym exhales quietly, leaning in to kiss your cheek as lightly and chastely as any sibling might. "I don't even know when it started anymore. Duw! I thought it began when you told me about Tiernan, but now? Now I'm not sure..."
     Fingers play a light arpeggio against your back, twisting and writhing in absent mimicry of pythons and ropes. "I was so jealous," he recalls, admits quietly. "From the beginning, Io. Even though I didn't know why. And I put you through hell - all of us. Me, you, Tiernan. Hell's fires... you told me the truth and I bloodied your nose for it. Even if not on purpose. But what happens when blood's shed on something we do?"
     Does it have mystical significance? I don't know. I should have paid more attention in class.
     He smirks at the thought, eyes opening and he looks at you again. "I'm not jealous of who you take to your bed. I'm not even jealous that you love them," Gwilym murmurs. One hand frees itself, comes up to brush fingertips lightly against your chest. "I wouldn't take your heart and lock it away if I could. I know something about freedom and chains. I need the chains in order to appreciate the freedom, even if prison would kill me. I don't know. I'm starting to lose myself in this argument, my brain isn't keeping up. My brain doesn't work on things like this."
     He exhales, stretching up against you and under you, every muscle tension for that following succumbing to relaxation. Fists uncurl to land heavily at your hip and your shoulder, his head tipped a little bit downwards. "I love you," Gwilym says simply. "And I feel a little foolish for it. Because of how much I don't know. But oes... I'd like to see what you've built. I'd like that." He looks up, skew smile with its self-knowledge making mockery of himself in place. "Anything to spend a little more time alone with you before we have to go back to being what the world thinks, oes?"

     You need to drown. He does not have to think about it. The ocean knows and it moves against your blood. He coasts there so easily, as if he could surf beneath your skin. You do not know what life is like without the feeling of water in your lungs. You cough it up when you rise, you wonder why you ever took up swimming, but the first chance you get you are marching back into the sea, diving into the depths of it again and opening your mouth.
     He is not going to argue with you over compliments. He rewards goodness where it is seen; it is as simple as that. Looking down his body, his eyes watch where your hands crawl. He sees them squirming through the serpents -- to his eyes, the serpents are always in motion -- scrying their way up his skin. Tipping his head back, Iowerth sighs. He looks at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, all the green washed from them as happens when dragons stir the blood. "Now I'm swimming," he murmurs.
     Yes, there is significance with everything that comes between you. With every look, every touch (chaste or otherwise). Iowerth stretches, his arms flopping outwards on the bed and his body for that moment writhes as surely as he feels the serpents in motion. He has so many marks now... will his body be entirely covered one day? "You may feel a little dizzy..."
     There is a strange sensation. The room isn't spinning, but there is a suggestion of motion that makes a human brain suffer vertigo. Your brother lies spread out upon the bed, a wondrous thing. His build is strong, virile, and painted thus he seems so Otherworldly -- is so Otherworldly. The lights dim, what little light there was, and there is a tinkling of glasses just beginning to shudder.
     And then it passes. It only lasted a few seconds, but long enough for one's brain to go all squirmy. The suggestion of motion stops and things return to absolute normal. As if nothing had happened. "We're here," Iowerth points out. It may seem like he's stating the obvious...
     But where is here?
     He lifts up, his upper body balanced by his palms on the bed's surface. He looks to you, smiling that secretive smile. It curves most serpentine, beguiling in its mystery, and he sits up then stands. His midnight silk shirt drips from his skin and pools onto the floor. "I think you'll like it. I hope you do. It's rather set in stone now." Your brother offers you his hand to help you from the bed, to lead you to the door and to your destination...
     Here...
     The twelve islands of the Crescent Moon glitter amid aquamarine bays and inlets. What were once twelve barren islands, a blank canvas of date trees and palmettos, olives and fir, is now a white-marbled wonder. The largest island is the royal island, the island of the seat of government. Its great white marble basilicas rise over the horizon of the sea, held aloft on limestone plateaux. There is a building inspired by the Pantheon of Rome, where trade councils will meet and the emissaries of the united kingdoms may come together for diplomacy, trade, philosophy.
     The waterfront of the main island is suited for the coming and going of many vessels of both trade and war, the bay dredged to handle even the mightiest of galleons (such as the ones he himself sails). An open-air marketplace has been created, with a great campo not unlike those in modern Venice, with porticos all around where shops may also be enclosed. There are paved streets and there are already white stucco homes and palaces waiting to be occupied by the working class and wealthy alike.
     White temples cap another island, the island dedicated to rituals and festivals. Its approach is much more limited, it is half-sheltered by inaccessible waterways, but it may be approached by several sailing channels. Another island contains the universities and libraries, large marble structures to be used for philosophy, learning, teaching, and the arts. Other smaller islands are for residential uses, with three of the islands set aside as nature preserves and hunting areas, resorts and private and public gardens.
     Iowerth surveys it all as he steps to the ship's railing, and then he turns to you and smiles. "Our home is there," he gestures to the many-domed structure visible from the ship, some distance from the shore itself, on the island's top-most point. Beneath the ship, you see it again, those roiling waters. As if a whirlpool were beginning but not yet of sufficient strength to swallow you, your brother and his ships (for The Draigamore is here as well) with it.

     There is a visceral reaction to hearing the truth when it is a truth which has gained momentum. You speak of his relationship with the sea, and prompt such a reaction; you can see, hear, smell, even taste it, every minute detail etched out for you in your arms, in front of your eyes.
     Gwilym shudders slightly, lips parting as he lurches forward against you, a moment of contained violence as his head lowers and raises in a jerky sort of nod. Acknowledgment. His fingers tighten, press against your skin, and you can hear him swallow, then exhale, a gasp escaping as he pulls air into his lungs mightily.
     And you wonder why I can't walk away.
     He looks at you, rising to sit next to you on the bed, looking at how you spread yourself out. "Nnh." One hand lifts to his temples; his eyes close, his other hand bracing itself against you. White teeth descend against his lower lip until he has to pull it free or otherwise shed his own blood. And you are rising, and slowly, your brother lifts his head and opens his eyes to look at you.
     What did you do...
     But you are as secretive as I am, aren't you, brawd? I won't know what you've done or what you're going to do until you show me, unless I demand you tell me. And you know that I won't. I like the surprises too much to do this any other way.
     You rise, he takes your hand, fingers sliding deftly against your palm before interlacing with yours. And he squeezes his hand before he allows you to draw him out from your ship.
     Your hand is released so that he can shield his eyes, and then, slowly, Gwilym looks around at what you have wrought. Just as slowly, his hands come to the ship's railing as he leans forward, then folds his arms to lean them as he himself leans. "Iowerth, the Creator," he murmurs softly. "Leaving me to be the Destroyer, Io? Well, I'll try not to break anything of yours. This is ... incredible, Io. How..."
     So many questions. How did we get here? How did you do this? Others which I won't bring up to my brain, it's broken...

     "You know," he begins, as he does when he's about to start a story, "...the ancients said that a great deal of creativity may be wrought in moments of complete sexual frustration." His tone is as blithe and droll as ever. "I have to say I agree." His periwinkle eyes flicker with his wink to you. Your hands are out of his way and so he puts his arm around your waist. "Iowerth the Dreamer, yes. Father set me on this path and the loves of my life have helped me realize it." Yes, you are included in that. He tilts his head, half-nodding as you mention being the Destroyer. "I took all of what would have been destructive energy, that squirming, sexual energy and...turned it into something else. Remember that....new mark of mine? The one you gave me?" He looks at you, his eyes focusing on your mouth a moment before lifting back to your eyes. "I saw this in visions, mad pictures writhing in my reptilian brain. I was tortured by want of you, need of you," his voice lowers to a hush, "..that burning that, uncontrolled, led me to pummel you into shadows. And Tiernan into unconsciousness. You gave me the mark, he helped me control it rather it controlling me. And...voila... the dream I had, made manifest. And yes," he chuckles, eyes slightly widening, "...do try not to break it. You've suffered a lot for it already."
     "All of creation requires some destruction," Iowerth says after a moment. "And all destruction wroughts the coming into being of something else. One is the Other." His hand rubs lightly at the small of your back. "I'm glad you like it," he whispers. And then, before the face of this wonder, he kisses you. It is a gentle press of his lips, full and heart-shaped like his mother's. "I wanted you so very much to like it. Come, let's take a closer look. You can see all of your apartments. You have your own wing!"
     His hand pats you solidly upon your back and then your shoulder as he begins to turn. You can see the sails of The Drake are now lowered, each one a writhing mass of fire-breathing serpents. "As for how we got here, I know you're dying to know. We rode the whirlpool from one end of the sea to the other. I can travel now without so much as lowering a single oar. I imagine should I ever have to fight sea battles it shall give me a tremendous advantage." He winks again and becomes a raven squatting on the railing. Come along... I suggest a flight. It'd take too long to walk it.

     Your kiss is leaned into, his lips pressing to yours before he pulls away. "I can just imagine it," Gwilym murmurs. "Your ship being spat out upon the waves in the midst of enemies... it will make you unstoppable." As if anything ever could stop you to begin with. "It's not fair," he adds with a grin.
     You become a raven, and he, not to be outdone, does the same. Twa corbies, brawd? Here's hoping you don't wot there lies a new-slain knight. I'm not in the appetite for fresh eyeballs.
     He lifts his wings with a ruffle, then into the air with great cawing laughter. He soars a bit, circling over you, then spiraling outwards over your ship. Are there any people here yet, other than the two of us? Or are we entirely alone? There are pluses and minuses to both. He is having visions, of a sort - not the great and powerful oracular visions of which you speak, but smaller and more personal. They are reflected in the shiny blackness of his raven eyes.
     I see myself here, moving through the crowded market, known by all, my smile on my face as poignant and pointed as ever. Fingers not so thieving, not then, and my eyes meet eyes - whose? Who is he? What significance does this hold? A lover, an enemy, an ally, a slayer? It is but a moment, and I hold it, but it is gone. It is sliding away from me, even though I still see those dark eyes locked upon me, with all that significance behind them. Someone I do not presently know - noone I know now to look upon like that has eyes like that.
     It almost distracts him; a current knocks him from his loop and he has to struggle to regain altitude. I almost became a man again, there. That would have been a painful landing, even over the open water. Lead on, pay me no mind...

     Ugh, fresh eyeballs. How nauseating. Fried, maybe. But never raw! The raven cackles as it lifts in a bound, its throat-clearing caw sounding over the waves. He leads you forward, over white-stoned marketplaces -- there are several such squares just like the main square all through the town, smaller... one for each neighborhood. The main square is ringed by great marble structures -- the Pantheon on one side, a court structure on another side, on the third a treasury, and the fourth a trading hall including an auction hall for livestock. We are alone. Several ships will be heading here soon, and I will begin spending my time here in the coming months. I have to remain available for the Great Wooing of Women, but otherwise, this is where I will be. Putting things in order. I have to get a new chamberlain, a steward. I am pulling some from Camelot with your father, my brother's permission.
     Plateaux of limestone and fruit-bearing and nut-bearing trees are broken by sweeping fields of vineyards and fields of nothing but flowers and orchards. And upon the highest plateau, up ahead, the great structure of the royal palace itself.
     It is in a word immense. There are a multitude of basilica domes, white facades of fantastic and classical elements carved. It is like the dreams of Byzantine, Greece, Rome and Babylon all thrown into one. It will house the royal household and courtiers, court officials, ladies, lords and favorites (including patroned artists). It has several courtyards and atria, open-air interruptions to all that marble -- some secret, some public, but all apparent from your bird's-eye view.
     He leads you up and up in altitude, heading for the largest dome, through an open window on the highest storey. The interiors are decorated with murals and mosaics. What must be his set of apartments are decorated on walls, floors and ceilings with maps and oceans and seadragons, dragons of all manners, with open archways within and between rooms. These will be mine. I've provided for a set of apartments on another floor for the queen to use as she sees fit and decorate as she sees fit. Here... these are yours, Gwilym...
     He leads you past those chambers to a broad hallway, that circles like a gallery around the center of the dome. Below, far below, you can see the other levels, even the first floor from this great height, and above you the ceiling of the highest dome itself. Directly across is another broad hallway that leads to the other half of this great floor.
     The raven plops to a running landing and then your brother is standing, barefoot and barechested in the start of a series of rooms bare of furnishings. Again, there are fantastic interior columns and colonnades leading to other chambers. He is standing in the midst of the largest room. Your receiving area, or public area, should you wish it to be. There are two large fireplaces, the marble carved into slithering dragons (copies of the ones that live in his skin and blood). Your ceilings are high and vaulted, and your many windows look out upon other islands and the wide-open sea.
     He turns, looking to you. "What do you think? You have your own private baths, several bedrooms. You can configure them however you like. Whatever makes you happy. You have arguably the best view. I think it's better than mine actually." He chuckles as he considers it. "Well, it's every bit as good anyway." Iowerth falls quiet then, just watching you and your reaction.

     He follows you with the speed borne of long practice, winging his way in your wake with an echoing caw of laughter. And his eyes miss nothing. He communicates nothing of his brief vision to you, not yet; out of some superstitious fear, perhaps, or out of the sense that this simply is not yet the time for it.
     And he lands, as you do, becoming a man inches from the ground as he swoops down to land in a light crouch just ahead of you. As you, his shirt has vanished. He is bare-chested, marked upon his upper chest and lower back with the diamond portal that perhaps you now see - it is the inverse of your star...
     "It is magnificent," Gwilym comments, turning his head to peer across at you. "Too big, if anything. What am I going to do with such splendor, brawd? You will have given me too much and left me with no need to steal."
     He looks back at the room, turning his head this way and that, stepping forward with a light movement as he brings his hands together to steeple them under his chin, against his lips. He exhales slowly, turning in circles to take in all his surroundings. You will have many people here, Io. It will become very crowded very quickly. Enjoy this solitude while it lasts, because it won't...

     "Well, you can't host orgies in a closet. You have to have a little bit of elbow room," he drawls, "literally." And then he flashes that smile, inherited from his father. "You can steal from elseplace to your heart's content, fill all the rooms with your ill-gotten gain. Make it a testament to your thieving prowess." Yes, he rather likes that. As you wander from place to place, Iowerth clasps his had behind him and meanders after you.
     "You and your future family, should you decide to have one, can all pack in. Better to have too much room than too little. Besides, one of the bedrooms is for me," he notes with a slanting smile. "You know, when I want to escape from my wife." Presumably Tiernan has his own 'Iowerth escape chamber'. "I've even taken the liberty of creating a secret labyrinth from my apartments to yours." He'll let you discover them on your own. He knows how you like that.
     Turning toward you, his hands unclasping, your brother comes to share your space again. He sees your mark... you see his. Peeking above the waistband of his trousers is your cometing star. "I know, it is beautiful isn't it... so quiet. Peaceful," he remarks. "Even our whispers echo," he whispers it as he stands near you. "And even with the windows closed," he says at your mouth, "...you can hear the sea."
     Hear it, yes, and you can feel it to. It crests with the padding of your brother's fingertips against your skin. You can taste it in his kiss. This is not the gentle peck of chaste brotherhood, but the enveloping maw of the ocean itself. Tide and ebb, you can feel it on your tongue as his swirls to surround it. The sound of the kiss, of your breaths combining, of sounds that would be inaudible in a fully-furnished chamber all echo here in this vast space. His mouth parts from yours with a last, teasing tug and with a thoughtful sound held in his throat.
     "I want you to wallow in the splendor," Iowerth murmurs. "To create a space that gives you pleasure. One where you can come to be pleasured should you wish. Have a harem, I don't care," he chuckles suddenly. "Do you think it would be too showy if I had one?" he quips as if the idea just now occurred to him. He winks to let you know he's kidding. Mostly.
     "Make it whatever you want, as fantastic as you want it. Connect it to the shadows as it pleases you, so long as the palace and the king are secure." He shrugs. Otherwise, it's all yours.

     "Orgies. Bah." Gwilym snorts his humour out, turning to you, facing you, his hands lifting to cradle your face. His mouth moves against yours with a sudden hunger, and he groans softly as you pull away. His fingers drift against your skin to your hips, squeezing before he releases you. "Bah," he repeats softly, looking at you. "As if I could stand more than one at a time. You know how I like to focus, Io."
     He will not move away. Remaining close enough to kiss you, close enough to smell you; enough that he can feel the warmth from your skin and from his own. "Things do not give me the pleasure they once did," he tells you, suddenly. "I think it's growing up that did it. I don't know. But things are nice; I like things. Now, I've turned myself inwards and inside out, looking for answers and meanings. I want to give you things; but what could I give you that you wouldn't have already? You and the General are alike in that." He smirks. "I can't impress you that easily. I can't give you things."
     His hand comes up, lands heavily again on your shoulder. "I'll make a shadow door that leads to my hiding place," Gwilym murmurs. "Only you will be able to open it. Noone else. From this side or that, you will always be able to find me. Even when I don't want to be found, Io. You will always be able to find me."
     Your shoulder is squeezed, and then he turns, wandering slowly away with that diamond upon his back. He looks different, with his hair cut so short. Absently, he swipes at the back of his neck. "When I rose from your ship, I saw something. I saw these islands, not as they are now, but as they will be, Io. Just a glimpse; we both know I anticipate the future differently from you. But I ... did see ... something..."

     Yes, you look like a man with your hair cut. That is it. You have cut the Youth away, revealing the Man beneath. And it is him I watch wander a little away, rubbing the back of his neck because he knows I can see him. You are devastating. All I want is for you to put your hands to my skin, let your fingers crawl against me and stir the dragons within.
     Your brother says nothing for several moments after your last word falls. He stirs himself from his staring at you, raking a hand through his own hair and against the back of his own neck. He leans his back against one of the marble columns. "What did you see?" he finally asks, his reverie peeling away from him.
     He heard your commentary on things, possessions. He will leave that for now. Visions always have top priority. "Do I need a drink for this?" And he suddenly thinks: It is good we are here without furniture. Do you have any idea what I'd be doing to you by now...

     He laughs, head tipped back as you bring up the wondering of drink. "It's not that bad," Gwilym tells you with mock reproof. Turning, he sits with his back to the wall, knees drawn up and his arms loosely against them. "What, did my back start doing semaphores of its own accord? A rhumba of the spine warning of future rheumatism?"
     He shakes his head, letting his gaze again tip to the floor. He is forever looking down, lately; it is introspective rather than insecure, though gods know (and you) that he has those as well. "I saw your market filled with people," he says finally, the emeralds in his eyes affixed to the marble. "Great seas of people, and I was in the middle of them. They knew who I was, in the general sense; your brother, and all that. I seemed well liked."
     That leaves him unmoved. It is easy for him to be well liked; it means nothing, to him. "I sensed no violence in it. Just an evenness - a fineness, if you like. It was like being in the Caribbean, on mum and da's side. I half expected some half naked girl to come up and toss a lei around my neck." Gwilym chuckles at that, then looks up. "And then I met a pair of eyes I didn't recognize and don't recognize. Did you ever look into an unfamiliar pair of eyes and see in them something urgent? Like being hit in the face with a cricket bat?"

     Iowerth shakes his head. "Not in visions or dreams," he says. "I have seen eyes in people I've met or passed by that have impacted me. But not in dreams." He grins a little, "Unless I'm having a wet dream, and then...yes, I have seen eyes and have been hit with a cricket bat." He can't help the chuckle at that and then waves it off. You're serious. I know. "No, not as such, not that way. So... you were well-liked in my kingdom. As I'd expect. If you wish, I'll hire a team of girls to throw rose petals at your feet wherever you go. Or maybe you'd prefer an entourage of hula girls..."
     Iowerth grins against his column, those images in his mind. "So, this person... what was the feeling you had when you saw them? Positive? Negative? Not sure? Do you think it was a threat...or a promise?" He folds his arms against his chest, the dragons twisting behind them. The cobalt blue leathers are gathered at his groin but clinging at his thighs and calves. He tilts his head, studying you, your reactions. "Or was it still ... is it still too early to tell?"
     He pushes off of his column and the sea comes for you again. Tide and ebb. His steps are slow as he approaches. "Are your ears ringing from that cricket bat...?"

     "If girls want to volunteer to throw rose petals at my feet, I suppose they can, but it's a waste of money. To say nothing of the girls." Gwilym grins at you slyly, sidelong. "I don't really need them to make a fuss; when I want a fuss, I'll start it, oes?"
     He inhales deeply, eyes closing again. "I can almost still smell it," he murmurs. "The sea, the salt, the brine, the roasting fowl - down the side aisle, there's a girl selling cowrie necklaces. Her brother dives off a boat for them, and brings them home. They take out the meat and put it into a stew, and then she washes the shells and painstakingly drills holes into them so that she can string them into jewelry. They aren't from here, originally; they're from an island chain off the coast to the east, brown-skinned and black-eyed, with small wings like gauze dyed indigo and saffron yellow. They came here on a ship with dozens of others - orphans from across the kingdoms, old enough to set off for themselves. They came together."
     He blinks, shaking his head as he opens his eyes. "Down the concourse, there are fish being brought in from the catch. Some is being sold as-is; others are being dried in the sun or salted. I can still almost see it, when I close my eyes, Io. I was just walking - minding my own business about as much as I ever do," there's a smirk for the words, "like everyone in our family does. And I turned, and I saw him. But I don't know him. I didn't know him then, either - or I won't, I mean, when I see him, and bloody hell, this future-past-present shite is difficult to talk about."
     Gwilym rolls his eyes, his hands lifting to scrub at his face. "He looked ... almost Arabic, or Greek, or - something. But not quite. And I looked at him, because he was looking at me, and he didn't look away when he saw me looking at him. And his eyes reached out and hit me. And oes... oes, my ears are still ringing. I don't know what he does with his eyes, but it must be quite the workout to pack that kind of punch."
     He looks up at you, then holds a hand out to you, smiling lopsidedly. "Maybe I've seen my future assassin. Who knows?"

     "That is the thing about the future," he says, his hand moving through your short hair, "...it is undefined and rather noncommittal. I am sure you will know him when you see him. The question is; will I? But I would not dread it," his fingers move against your hair, your scalp again. "There is no point dreading the future anyway. It comes when it comes."
     His fingers draw away and he turns, surveying your chamber. "I am looking forward to seeing what you do with this blank canvas. For now," his voice softens to a murmur, "...I want to head to the ship. It is more comfortable. The marble has no give." He smiles and steps back. I really like this new look. You know what I like about it. It is you. You simply as you are. It is another mask to some, but for me... it is You. A statement that you are here... nothing to hide behind. I see you like this...and I see the warrior beneath the thief.
     "My arms are not done," Iowerth announces, his voice filling this empty, vast space. "...with holding you, with needing to hold you. Forgive me, my brother, but I have gone without you long enough."

     "It is what it is and will be." Gwilym smiles at you, moving to his feet, following you as you step back. "I don't intend to dread it. In all probability, I'll have forgotten it by morning. It's of so much less weight than everything else in my life, without the urgency of Now."
     He circles round to behind you, his arms going round your waist, his mouth parting at the nape of your neck with his eyes closed so that he can taste you without the distraction of sight. Blank canvases don't interest me half so much as established masters, Io. Which may be why the future is less interesting to me than right now. Right now, you are here. I can touch you, taste you, feel you, hold you. My only problem with it is that I know I will eventually have to let go. What thief likes to know that?
     "You have me now," Gwilym murmurs, his lips grazing your ear as he releases his hold upon you. "We are alone in your kingdom. Here, your will is as law, isn't it? What does my brother the king command? A return to the ship?" He grins, and transforms. A bright-eyed black raven flaps where before there was a man, a pile of silk cloth trousers crumpling to the floor.
     Last one back to the ship has to sleep on the outside of the bed...

Posted by rowan at August 27, 2006 08:13 PM