The Dark Road. How long has it been since I have ridden it? A hundred years has come and gone in a blink of an eye, and stunned I stared at myself in the mirror, hardly recognizing the face I saw looking back. It was only when I saw her that I recalled that life at all. I had become so comfortable in my time away, on solid soil seeking refuge. And what happens with a thief becomes comfortable?
     He dies with a neck snapped in a noose, that's what...
     From the labyrinths of London's shadows to those that exist Between Places, leading lastly to Otherworldly covers of darkness, I began to walk. My steps were slow at first, but then I found myself pacing. Marching. Running. And the old companion that used to cloak me from the sheriffs and king's men joined me again, clapping me on the back as if no time had passed at all.
     The Dark Road is paved with secrets, cobbled mysteries gathered upon a darker landscape -- a place that is a place and No Place all at once. They hold every footfall with conspiratorial silence, and cloth of shadows that on earth would flap like the snapping of flags ripple noiselessly.
     A murky figure looms in that darkness, keeping to the silver road, but tugging upon the darkness like grasping the hand of an old friend. His companion Shadows are formed into the shape of a steed, its head lifted, mouth open to an invisible bit, and upon him Black Jack Davy himself, the true Davy, the Black Fox as some called him, Gypsy Davy as others called him. His cloak is of darkness, and shadows form his clothing, cap his head with the tricorn hat, cover his identity with a veil of oblivion so that only his eyes may be seen, emerald shining things, strange and bright as jewels.
     No king's man could catch him. If he did not have time to change his form he would simply ...disappear, dissolving from the known realm and onto the Dark Road. As the steed of shadows slows, its pace an Otherworldly glide, stars appear in constellations over its rider's head, shapes such as the material realm could not fathom. For these stars are all that have ever or shall ever exist, seen and unseen by any eyes that might glance up to a mortal sky, past the ken of man-made telescopes.
     Rhodri exhales laughter. Freedom, I am sorry I ever left you.

     Someone comes...
     It is not often that I hear footsteps echoing in the shadows. Though I do not 'hear' them so much as feel them; as a spider, sensitive to the finest vibrations along silken threads in a web, I am aware of no longer being alone.
     Who has come? Who is there? Friend or foe...
     Gwilym has been hunting in Shadow for any remnants of spiders or lizards of the dead witch who had previously been hunting him and his. Guarding the way, as he would say; clad in black leather armour with a cloth tied round his head, there's no errand locks to show himself as red and gold, only his own emerald gaze peering into the shadows. He tilts his head, a hand on his sword as he steps forward.
     "I haven't lit a fire," he calls out. "And I haven't caught a deer. But if you're a friend as you may be an enemy, I'd appreciate a hail all the same."

     The shadow horse is as beautiful as it is terrible, terrible because it is a phantom itself -- beautiful animal, to be sure, but not animal at all. It trots forward slowly, canting sideways as it goes before controlling hands pull it right-ways once more. The trot slows to a walk and then some fifteen feet from you it stops altogether. For a moment, the figure there just stares, all but his eyes covered. But those eyes, they beam a friendly light. So might one think.
     "Gwilym Gwyn Garu," the voice you recognize hails. That is your father, Gwilym Gwyn Garu. He does not remove the tricorn hat, nor the covering of shadows that cloaks his neck and shoulders, wrapping around his nose and mouth. He looks like one of the magi with his veil. "Am I such a strange sight on these roads?" comes the smooth intonation of his voice, upon which he quietly laughs. "I am sure that I must be. I thought I had forgotten the way, the call," he murmurs, "I could not find the road a few weeks ago. I flew into a drunken panic. Had I been away so long as to have forgotten it altogether?" But no, it was not so. Though he knows nothing of your closing the paths before and during your recent battle.
     Black Jack Davy sits easily upon that shadow steed, that phantom animal that snorts darkness and paws at the path, stirring the shadows like soot. Leaning his weight on the horn and pommel of his saddle, your father peers at you, taking the measure of you before his eyes soften, liking what he sees. "You've been hunting all the same. Though what sort of deer one might capture here would give me pause," your father mulls. "How are you, Gwilym..."

     Ah, good. No enemy, hitherto known or otherwise. "You're clinging to anonymity, da." Gwilym grins a little, settling back against shadows which become solid at his will. He puts up his sword, folding his arms over his chest. "You had me halfway to worried."
     Do you believe it, that he might worry about anything in these shadows? He tips his head to the side, watching you, watching your horse with open curiosity. "I'd closed the way. You must have tried to get in when I was ... dealing with a problem." Ask him no questions and he'll tell you no lies. Oh, he might tell you about it. He might not. He hasn't decided yet.
     Now he sinks downwards to seat himself, crosslegged, a shadow made flesh upon shadows made something else. "I am ... something. I am not sure," Gwilym muses. "I haven't really figured it out yet. What about you?" Emerald eyes so like unto your own now dart a glance up at you. "No, no deer; something else. Less pleasant. Less edible, too. You seem as if you are looking for something."

     "I am... something, I am not sure... as well," he admits softly. "I have been... confined. A long while. Longer than your mind can even yet comprehend. I have not recognized the face in my mirror for quite some time. Your mother... has been my only real touchstone." Sound familiar? "I have been too long away from myself..." You form the shadows into solid things, and he has formed them as well. His clothing wavers, the steed between his legs of shadows deeper mysteries.
     There is comprehension in his eyes as you mention the closed paths and troubles. "Have them sorted?" That is his only question. "If you need my help, son, never be afraid to ask for it. I come without judgment." Rhodri ap Davydd ap Owain raises a hand, pulling back the veil to show his face both Ancient and Young. And always enigmatic.
     "If after six centuries I must still reconcile and search," he smiles a little to you, "... then is it any wonder you do as well? Hmm," he looks up to the stars a long moment. Still looking up at them moments later he continues: "We who walk this Road are destined to constantly seek what is shadow... and what is Self." Emerald eyes return their attention to you, his hands still the horse for whom stillness is an anathema. "I have grown too comfortable. Time is wicked on a thief, boyo. Long life brings familiarity, familiarity often brings with it the comfort of success. Comfort... is a thief's worst enemy."

     "Why d'you think I worried mother by running off to war?" Gwilym grins at you, but there is comprehension in his eyes, along with truth. He looks away; it's uncomfortable for a thief to show too much truth, even to those closest. "I've been ... doing things, da. Probably some of it papa wouldn't approve of." He grins a little, reaching through shadow and pulling a foaming pitcher of beer and a couple of faux-golden tankards. "Pull up some ground, if you like. A drink."
     Your son has changed since you last saw him. Time runs so differently, between one world and the next; it is only still here, in the place which is between all places. His hand swipes back over his head, palming black cloth from red-gold hair that has been cut very short. The alertness in his eyes tells you things; he knows things, now, which he did not before.
     "They're sorted, da. I'm sorry for the fuss." Gwilym pours with a steady hand, aware of you but watching his task. The apology implied there is something for which he must apologize; apology and admission all in one. But he is moving on, at that. "I've spent a little time with Io. He's gotten things sorted with his boy. And he's shown me his kingdom. He's built it, you know."

     A hand comes against the horse's neck. He pats it gently, an old familiar hand for an old familiar steed. He dismounts quickly, but with a fluid grace that can only come from years (centuries, in fact) of practice. The horse neither dissolves nor runs away. It puts its nose to the road, to the shadows there. It nibbles on shoots of secrets as any horse would spring blades of grass. Out from the saddlebags, Rhodri takes a drinking horn and he sets his tricorn hat aside, crowning the pommel with it.
     "It's pointless to fret over troubles or mistakes once resolved. If things are sorted, then that is good enough for me. Here," he tosses the drinking horn to you. The horn is large, curved, and filled with liquid. His hair is longer than yours, forelocks past his high cheekbones but short in back. As he comes over to join you, a squat boulder of shadows takes shape, providing him with seat. Starlight spurs sparkle in streaking comets from his black leather boots. The clothing is that of an 18th Century highway-gentleman, all black.
     Rhodri looks to you as you speak of your Twin, his brother and yours both. "Good." For a moment Rhodri simply stares at you. "He will be king soon, Gwilym," he nods. "His father...our father... is forever tied to the material realm. As he returns to earthly matters, I feel I will be riding the dark roads in between the worlds. While I may yet call the Oak King's Kingdom mine, it is mine in name only. My purpose is elsewhere for the foreseeable future." He does not speak with the prophecy your brother speaks, but with the perception of a man who has learned to watch the prevailing events and can predict the direction of his journey. At least in part.
     "He is a born administrator, your brother. You?" He holds his hand out for his drinking horn finally. "Though you have first right to claim that kingdom in my stead, I do not think it is for you." He shakes his head. "No, my son, I feel you are destined to ride the frontiers of Chaos. Beyond the edges of this road. The frontier is growing more wild, even as the kingdoms of fairy and Otherworld here are becoming more orderly. Chaos fights this growing Order, and Shadows are where those battles will be fought. In Shadows and in unformed space. Your destiny is your own to discover, but ..." And here his emerald eyes narrow and your father's enigmatic mouth makes an enigmatic turn: "...call it a hunch."

     The horn is caught, taken; its contents, sniffed, then swallowed with the gusto of a man who thirsts. He sighs as he lowers it, looks up to you; and listens. He belches, releasing it with only a salute of the horn as pardon. His mother is not here to smack him on the back of the head for it.
     "He is ready," he says simply, speaking of his brother. He is surprised and unsurprised all at once. The signs were there; he just hadn't interpreted them. "He is a better king than I would be. I will resign myself to princedom. Prince-hood? Principality? Whatever," Gwilym waggles a gauntleted hand, then offers your horn back up to you. "But you're right, da. I'm not comfortable enough sitting in one place. Tying myself to any one... well." He smirks, faintly, with only a wry sort of humour in acknowledgment of truth. "There is one I would. If the world were a different place and I were a different person. But it isn't and I'm not, so I'll make do."
     He settles back, dragging a knife from his boot and plucking up a handful of shadows. Idly he runs the steel blade against them, watching them disperse and reform. "Whether that's my destiny or not I don't know. I ... saw something ... which says 'destiny' to me, but it's nothing more than a pair of eyes. I don't know what it means. It's stuck with me like a needle sticking in my flesh all the way to the bone and I can't shake it loose, but there's nothing I can do about it, so why bother? Are you going to return to the frontiers, then, da?"

     The liquid is mead. You knew it was coming when you opened the horn. And he drinks from it as deeply as you had previously, holding the horn loosely in gloved hands after. His mouth had quirked at your belch, an approving smile you may see as his eyes glint in shadow's starlight. "It is not that you wouldn't be a good king, or a good leader, for I believe you would. I was born a prince, heir to a material kingdom, I have been crowned a king, but I am not a king in my spirit, in the heart of me. My path... and your path... they are simply different from your brother's. And perhaps one day you will wish to remain in one place, and if so... then you are heir to a great domain, and you may claim it if it suits you."
     An eyebrow lifts as you mention tying yourself to someone. He doesn't pry but he does look astonished. Have you found your touchstone already? The look of astonishment passes as he lifts the drinking horn for another long swallow of mead. "The Oak King is ...just another mask. But your mother is the one constant. She is my touchstone," his love is fierce and deep. "She knows the metal, she proves my worth whenever she is near. It is... not about anchoring," his eyes narrow in thought as he endeavors to explain it, "...it is having one person who knows what is true... and what is shadow... even if sometimes you do not."
     Inclining his head, your father listens to you speak of your vision, a destiny perhaps, a friend or foe... only Time will reveal. "I would caution only that your destiny cannot be found in one person, or a dozen people. It is not outside of yourself, Gwilym. It is ...simply stated... how you are compelled to exist. That is your destiny speaking. These eyes... may belong to someone you are fated to meet, but they are not your Fate." He raises an eyebrow: do you see the difference between the two?
     Rhodri takes another swallow from the horn, offering it back to you. "To the frontiers? No... no I am not pulled there. My routes will be between the Material world and the Otherworld... the connections between the two. Those... I will have to guard... to protect... to ride... I feel that strongly. The frontiers... those I leave to my competent heir apparent," he grins at you. "You will have to tell me how it goes, Gwilym Gwyn Garu... "

     "I have tried to lead. To build a kingdom. As with the thieves and spies in mother's kingdom. I spent a lot of time getting things organized, getting myself recognized as a major player, as a leader. And in the end, I turned and I walked away from it all." Gwilym speaks to you candidly, emerald gaze lifting to look at you. "I know what goes on, and they still report to me, but ... I am not there. The me they report to is a mask, a shell, and though it was me when I started, it simply isn't anymore."
     He laughs a little at your look, and he shakes his head. "I know what I am looking for. It may take me as long as it took you, da, before I find one I can have. The one I found ... well ..." Your son rolls his shoulders in that careless shrug that betrays the sting. "No Trespassing. Keep Off The Grass. Violators Will Be Shot On Sight. Sometimes you can break the rules and win the prize, but not every prize is winnable, or worth the grief of winning, oes? It's alright, da. If there is a touchstone out there for me, I will find it eventually."
     In the meantime...
     In the meantime, the knife is tossed down carelessly to stick, point-first, in shadowy ground as if there were clay underfoot. "How's mum doing? Better, I hope? If she hears you're encouraging me to take off for Parts Unknown," he grins a little, "and put my neck in danger, she'd have parts of you in slings, wouldn't she. Don't worry. I won't tell her if you won't."

     Rhodri's mouth holds the suggestion of a grin. Yes, she would, wouldn't she. "She would look at it with a woman's eye and hear it with a mother's ear. In short, I would be hanged," he lilts humorously, "... but despite the feelings of the judge and jury, Gwilym, a life without risk is not one worth living. And she is doing better, as is your brother. They are both growing stronger now that they are separated. And I am... acquainting myself with the young boy. It will be months before his personality will show through. For now, we are simply eyeing one another through a fog of talcum."
     He nods slowly as you mention unwinnable prizes. The jewel that cannot be stolen; the woman (or man) who cannot be captured. It is an old tale, perhaps the oldest. The look that follows is understanding. "I have encountered that more than once. Even in this lifetime, with your mother. But I managed to steal her in the end. Sometimes the forbidden... must be tasted and held. I do not regret walking on the grass, trespassing on my father's woman. Was my love not as worthy? But ... time will sort it out, whether you decide to trespass or not. If not this one, then another. You are young, I cannot conceive of how young -- that's how old I am. I... I am sure you will find someone who will touch you and find the gold."
     He looks between his hands, to the horn he loosely holds. He sips from it again. "Guilding thieves is like herding cats," he cracks, swallowing another mouthful of mead. "The best you can expect to do is to build a solid network. If you do more than that, then ... you are faring better than most leaders or most kings throughout time. If it isn't you, son, don't force it to be. You force yourself into a venture far more dangerous than calming the outer frontiers if you go to run a nation of thieves without the heart to do so."

     "Mum would do worse than hang you," Gwilym grins, "she might make you sleep on the couch. With Pedwyr." Ouch. He laughs a little, then gives his head a shake. "I don't know, da. I'll give it another try, see if it's for me. If not, well - you want it?"
     So freely he would give it to you. He has been working on it since he was twelve, but when he is ready to walk away, it matters not at all how long he has worked. He folds his hands behind his head, settling back and looking up at the shadow-sky.
     He does not talk about forbidden fruit, beloved or otherwise. "I'm glad they're doing better. I might swing by London at some point. I'm restless, da. Staying in one place just ... it seems like a bad idea. I need to go out there, put myself out there, meet more people, do more things. I don't know what I want, but I'll recognise it when I see it, and I'm ready to bite someone to get it."
     He grins at that. It is funny, and he can see the humour in it. "Gold," Gwilym scoffs. "Bah. I pull gold out from others; if there's any gold in me, it belongs to someone else..."

     He smiles at you. It is silent laughter. "I may put it to use. Spies and thieves can be very useful. Better to have a thousand ears to the darkness than only two." He looks up at the stars as well, his expression quieting to that bland, unfathomable look. "Do what feels right for you, Gwilym. Ultimately, it matters not what you do so long as you are true to who you are. I shall support you, regardless."
     "But you won't find them in London," he speaks suddenly of your mother and new brother. "They are in Powis. Your mother was visiting London but the family home is Powis Castle. She needs easy access to her kingdom, and it is Pedwyr's place. The earthly castle is his inheritance." He watches the stars streak by. He does not know what Time will present for his newest son, but that he will be earthbound the whole of his natural life. A natural life, indeed, that shall have a beginning, a middle, and an end. "She would love to see you, I know."
     Rhodri chuckles suddenly, a soft sound easing from his throat. "Hmm... maybe your metal is not gold. Perhaps it is lead. It would explain your stubbornness." He would cuff the back of your head were he closer. Because he is not, your father simply shakes his head. "You can lie to everyone else, Gwilym Gwyn Garu, but I fear it is no use with me. You have greatness of which you have not yet even dreamed. You will not believe me, oh lead-headed one, but you will see it in time."

     "I will visit, if I go to that side. But I never said I'd be going to London for that purpose." Gwilym grins at you, secrets and mischief racing by behind his gaze. "But oes - if mother heard I'd been there and didn't say hello, she'd bruise me, I think. And I'm a delicate and growing lad. I need gentler treatment than that."
     One booted foot rests lightly atop the other, and for a long moment, he says nothing at all. There is no need to rush; no haste, no hurry to find words. If you were your father, perhaps he'd need more words; but as it is, he stays where he is, as he is, saying nothing. When finally he speaks, his voice is softer, without drowsiness, but with the aimlessness of a lack of intent.
     "You and Io both think me something which I don't see, da. I'm not a visionary. I've done nothing new. Io at least has the credit of the sin of originality. Me?" He smiles halfway, then shakes his head. "I'll muddle through, da. I always do, don't I? But oes, I am a base metal. It will take more than a woman's touch to alchemist me into gold. In the meantime, while I figure it out, I think I'm going to wander."
     "Mum'll worry, so I don't intend to tell her," your son continues, looking up with a frank and candid gaze. Gotten from his mother, that look. "She can think I'm ... wherever. The postcards'll go to Io instead. I was thinking of visiting Africa and Indonesia. What do you think?"

     "I am your father. I am supposed to see things in you that you do not. It is my job and duty." He smirks at that, and rising he places the horn back in the saddlebag. "You should wander. You are young. Now is the time. Life is to be experienced, not read about. I think you should go where your heart is leading you. Be it here, or some other place. If you pass by Madagascar, pick me up some vanilla, won't you." He grins, taking his hat and placing it back on his head. "Make love to a Maharaji's daughter, steal the jewel from a temple idol's eye. Whatever you fancy, Gwilym. It is your story. You are the only one who can write it."
     That said, he affixes the veil back in place. An air of mystery returns to him immediately. It is a mask among masks. "I shan't tell her either." Rhodri swings back upon his mount of shadows, the horse responding by dancing in place and rearing with a sudden need to move. Your father calms it without a sound, the horse stamping in place even so. "I hear Thailand is lovely. Fiji." The horse moves toward you, flanking you suddenly. Its breaths are darkness incarnate, quite disconcerting. But your father's hand upon your head is reassuring. He smiles, you can tell by the grin held in the green of his eyes.
     "Live your life to the fullest, Gwilym. To do that, you must risk, adventure, lose and win. No life is without its pain, nor its joy." He and his steed withdraw, backing along the road and turning. He looks to you over his shoulder. "I will see you on the road from time to time...I'm sure..."

     "I'll try to make sure to recognise you before swinging my sword. And I'll try not to stay so long in shadow that I forget who I am." It has come close to happening; you can see it in his face, heard it in his voice. The multitude of things not-said crowding beneath the simple words. Emerald eyes acknowledge you, but there is a weight to them. He has not yet learned how to shed that weight.
     When did life get so complicated, da? I'll do my best, of course. And I will visit Io often; he's made me promise. Sat on me for half an hour, the ruddy heavy git.
     He straightens up to his feet, nudging the tray away with a toe. It falls back through shadow to somewhere Else, and he shakes the black cloth out, tying it slowly in place once you withdraw. "Da?" Gwilym calls out after you. "How long did it take you, to ... know who you were?"

     Life has always been this complicated, my son. His words are gentle Truth within you, revealing themselves to you quietly, as Truth so often does. It is the knot that grips us all. He turns the horse around as you call out to him. He looks at you a long while.
     "I am six-hundred years old, Gwilym. Who I am... is still unfolding. If you are looking for an endpoint, you will not find it. You... as are we all... are in the center of an infinite labyrinth. You will walk in all directions. Some paths will dead-end, others will open new paths. But as long as you live, you will be walking. The longer you walk, the more there is to know. You will have an understanding of who you were in this time... or during that ordeal or event... and then you will round another corner, only to discover that you are changing..."
     He says nothing for a time, his green eyes taking in your expression, the weight in your eyes. "I wish I had better news. But it has been this way for each man and every woman who has been born. And it does not end even here with this life but continues through however many incarnations you might have in the future. Do you not know more about who you are now than you did when you were two? When you are fifty, will you not know more than you know now? And yet... you will still be walking, still be discovering who you are... facing the future to who you might become."
     He turns the horse about to continue along the road that brought him to you, not galloping but simply walking forward. The only constant in all of this is Change. And Love. Love of family... that is the thread that guides you through the labyrinth. Give us a tug now and then, Gwilym. I love you, son. The horse swishes his tail as he begins to trot. The trot becoming a canter that begins to take the Gypsy Davy further from your sight...
     But is he not always with you? In the pit of your heart?

Posted by rowan at September 02, 2006 07:22 PM