The ships The Draigamor and The Drake remain offshore, their sails tucked in and anchors firmly on the bay floor. Both ships look vacant. But for one flickering light in the late afternoon coming from the captain's quarters on The Draigamore, one would never know anyone was on board.
     But, indeed, there is one upon the storied ship, one who would just as well be thought to be elsewhere. Not here. Not available. The curtains are mostly drawn on the captain's bedchamber window. Only one panel of windows is visible, just enough for him to see out of.
     Iowerth lies upon his bed, resting on his stomach, his legs this way and that under the covers. A bottle of brandy is half-empty, the glass resting on the wooden window sill. The bed is in disarray, a reminder of a morning -- this morning, in fact -- which now seems very long ago. Something that happened to different people. But no, he reminds himself, it happened to you, today.
     Arms crossed beneath his head, Iowerth pours another glass full (too full), as his gaze drifts out over the open sea. He sets the bottle aside with a thud (it is now only a quarter full) and takes another long swallow from his glass.
     No amount of brandy in the world or on the seas will be enough to salve the guilt and grief of how today has ended. He would like to have this one back, to be honest, but he knows there's no rewind. Not even here.
     You are not good for him...
     He would be better off without you...
     What a prick you are Iowerth ap Davydd...
     Iowerth sighs at his thoughts, his breath given to his arms and pillows and he looks out over the sea again. Wide open space, a living symbol of All Things Being Possible. So why does Love seem so suddenly impossible?

     "Such unhappiness," a familiar voice drawls. "Getting drunk before dinner, Io? I suppose in that case there's no hope of tempting you off and away with me for an adventure."
     It is your brother, of course. Who else? Emerald eyes agleam, Gwilym Gwyn Garu slides from a patch of shadow to unwind himself at the foot of your bed. His arms go around one of the posts, and he leans towards you with a flash of white teeth. Is his smile irritating? He hangs forward to lightly grab your foot.
     "You look like the weight of two worlds has just landed solidly and with a mighty thump upon the small of your back. What's going on, brother dear? Need me to cut someone's throat for you?"
     The tone is teasing, but with seriousness underneath. He is concerned for you, although not yet very; and devoted. If someone needs to die, he will no doubt make it happen. And he looks the part; he wears a sleeveless black cotton t-shirt and black jeans, hair untidy. There's a bandage around his upper left arm, likely why he's got the sleeveless shirt on, the still pink edges of a cut running past the white cloth. His grin is crooked as he looks at you, waiting for your reply.

     "I should have started drinking when I awoke," he drawls. The drawl has a noticeable drag to it. Another few glasses and he will be slurring. "If you're off to kill someone, might as well start with me." Iowerth turns his head as you grab at his foot. "Today I discovered I am a bastard."
     There must be a story to this...
     Exhaling and sitting up just long and far enough to drink from his glass without wasting brandy, Iowerth turns his gaze from you, turning it back to the sea. "What did you do to your arm?" A clever diversion, to be sure, but one that isn't working even for him. It lasts only as long as it takes him to swallow from his glass and then set the half-full snifter aside.
     "Tiernan and I have had a bad day, brawd. Rightly said, I was cruel to him. I acted out of anger and my own hurt, very manly of me, and verbally mistreated him. He has had a lifetime of people being cruel to him." He shakes his head, forlorn to think himself now part of that miserable company.
     "So I am drinking up the courage to admit that I'm no good for him," he murmurs. "He is at the palace... thinking. If he's smart, he's thinking of how he can let me down not so gently and return to the material realm where he's happy. He may come by later," Iowerth adds. It is an important matter to convey, knowing how the two of you have been and what matters have been like for years now between the tragic triad you make.
     With a mighty exhale, Iowerth looks back out at the sea. "I don't feel like a king. I don't even feel like much of a man, to be honest."

     His eyebrows go up as he listens to your litany, and he moves from the foot of the bed to sit on the bed next to you. Not quite sitting on you - but close to it. "Ah. One of those days."
     Gwilym reaches over and grabs a handful of your hair - not hard enough to hurt, but he lifts your head, looking you in the eyes intently. "Mmm... no, it's no good. Solid rock. Look, brawd. I can pat you on the back and tell you meaningless platitudes, which we both know you don't want, I can cheerfully agree with you, which is what you subconsciously think is what you want and what you deserve, or I can give you a hearty dose of truth and you'll want to kick my arse. I wish I could offer you a better choice, but those are the only three you've left in the bag."
     He releases your hair, patting you on the head, and light as a feather he lifts himself to sit crosslegged, propping his elbow on his thigh, chin on his hand as he gives you that look of eternal devilry. "The cut is healing," Gwilym grins at you, "and was just someone who thought he'd make a better thief-prince than I would. You get these things, in this line of work. I will be fine, but until it is fully healed, I have been told in no uncertain terms to take it easy. Advice they should have given you. So, which is it to be, brawd mine? Platitudes, acquiescence, or honesty? You will find them all infuriating."

     He rolls his eyes. "You are already infuriating," he sputters. "Give me truth. I can't bear being patronized by platitudes and you can't acquiesce for shite." With another breath, Iowerth rolls over. The oceans and whirlpools etched on his skin hint at, but do not show, his own turbulence. Where it can be plainly seen is in his eyes, which are nothing but lavender now, the green pushed to the outer edges to the point of being invisible. It is like that when his emotion is high, no matter the reason.
     Propped up on the pillows, snifter in hand and back to the sea, he looks at you. "It looks like it was nasty," he remarks on your cut. He halts any other words on his tongue. Everything sounds too harsh, too droning, too brooding. He takes another draught of the brandy, then offers the glass to you.
     "So... tell me the truth," he says. He doesn't sigh it. He doesn't moan it. He simply asks for it.

     "Knife fights are always nasty," Gwilym answers you casually. "There is no distance to them. When it's in that close, it's you or him, and pray god it's you that wins. There are a very many unpleasant ways to die, and being gutted like a fish never appealed to me for my own."
     You ask for truth, and he settles back a little, looking at you. There is compassion in his gaze, but a certain wry-bodied humour as well. "You had a fight. All married couples fight. Our own parents included, duw - you've heard some of the fights mum's had with papa, and she's had a time or two with da as well. And whether or not you two are married according to anyone else, you've been together for closer to ten years than not."
     Leaning forward, he steals the glass from your grasp with a small nod of thanks, that wandering grin returning as he takes a swallow. "He's been hurt before, had people be cruel to him before - oh, why wouldn't I be better than that, for I am his love, his mate, I am so perfect! Io, I love you like a brother, which is a good thing, considering, but deflate a bit, will you? You aren't perfect." He shrugs, rolling his eyes and leaning across you to set the goblet down. "Noone is."
     "Now," Gwilym continues, sliding from the bed in order to pace across the floorboards, "that he's been hurt before is true; I know some of what he went through. Saw the bitch's torture chambers. A few other things." His gaze goes to you. "I am not telling you what I found there. He doesn't remember, and I don't think you need to know. Let's just say she had her own private chamber of horrors, oes? He came out of it more or less in one piece."
     He climbs up onto the footboard of the bed, now, holding the bedpost to perch lightly in place, looking down at you with red-gold hair falling across one eye. "In short, he survived it, Io. He'll survive you popping off at the mouth and saying something, too. The world has a lot of sharp edges, and you can't be perfect for anyone - him, me, whomever. You fuck up, you say you're sorry, and you get over it. If he's going to break up with you over one incident, either he's an idiot - which hasn't ever fitted into things you've told me about him - or there is something you are not telling me." Your brother leaps down lightly, sinking back into his crosslegged posture, looking at you with chin on his hand, head slightly tilted. "Or are you having second thoughts?"

     "I never said I was perfect," he counters. "Do I expect perfection of myself? I hold myself to high standards, I will say that." Folding his arms against his chest, Iowerth looks to you. "I know I'm flawed. I verbally reminded Tiernan of that earlier today. And then, of course, followed that up with a lovely demonstration," wry tones tug on his voice, echoing the gesture made by his hand.
     He gives his body to the pillows, his head rolling back on the cushion they make, his gaze sweeping across the ceiling. "There was no excuse for my behaving this way today. None. Especially considering his background, his struggles, past and present. What sort of man does that? Sees someone really vulnerable and runs up and kicks them?"
     Not sort of man he considered himself to be, certainly. "I lashed out at him today. I was upset he was going to leave and I punished him for it. Which certainly makes a good case for him leaving, doesn't it. When he first arrived, yesterday," his voice quiets, "...he was so goddamned beautiful. He was strong, confident. It took my by surprise. I didn't know how to speak to this Tiernan I was seeing. It was like... night and day. When he is not with me, look how he shines. When he is with me, he is miserable. Weak. He doesn't feel good about his future. I take that from him. It's like... I see his light and just want to douse it ...to make myself brighter. Can that be true? I am starting to think so. It is not that I don't love him, I do. It's not that I don't want to be with him. I do. I just have seen my effect on him... and it saddens me. When I left him in his room to come back here he was just a shell of the person he was when he arrived. And I did that."
     That is the nature of his upset. Not the argument itself, the words used, what was said or not or done or not, but that the progress, the strength, all that was triumphant in his lover was stripped away so seemingly by his mere presence. And the tears that did not let themselves fall before now spring from his eyes, spraying his cheeks with salt water. "Duw... I am terrible, brawd. If that is true."
     Even he realizes he is rushing too far, too fast. Iowerth takes in a deep breath, the heel of his hand digging at his eyes, stopping the leaking as soon as it starts. "It's just what I'm afraid of. What I saw with my own eyes. I didn't like it, brawd."

     "So you hurt him. You know what you did; you're sorry for it. Don't do it again, or try not to. You are not some sort of chronic abuser; you are simply having trouble accepting change. You never were good at it. Neither am I." He can admit it to you; you, who already know him so well. "But I understand. It puts you under a burden, oes? Guilt is hard to get rid of."
     His hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing you. "Do you make him be weak? Or do you just have trouble ... knowing what to say to him, he is so different? Does he alter with you, or does he want to show you, share with you who and what he is? You two've been involved a long time, Io. It's easier when things are rough, to fall back on familiar patterns. It takes two to maintain and sustain a change."
     Gwilym snorts, sitting back. "Listen to me. As if I know so much about relationships, oes? Me, who avoids relationships like a plague. Still I will be the unmarried bachelor uncle when your children have fully grown."
     He exhales, both hands under his chin as he looks at you. "I don't think you are terrible. I think you are struggling. And likely he is as well. Tell him your fears instead of keeping them for my ears. Do you think he'll leave if you tell him the truth? If he does..." Gwilym shrugs. "Well, if he does, then he would leave anyway, and best sooner than lingering to poison the wound."

     There's a twist of his mouth when you speak of doling out relationship advice. This is rich, you advising me -- but when you're right, you're right. Iowerth nods. "I am struggling, a bit. And ... it was strange. Our dynamics were shifted when he returned. And with him scheduled to leave again... the brief visits just don't allow us to ...catch up properly."
     Iowerth peers at you. "When did you become so fucking wise all of the sudden?" He chuckles a little. You see his hand move. If you were sitting beside him, he'd have given you a pat and tussle. Iowerth sits back, eyes to the ceiling again. He shakes his head slowly. "I don't think he would leave if I told him the truth. I suppose I should tell him when I see him next, admit to it and ... see what happens. I think he'll think I'm mad, but I don't think he'll leave."
     Periwinkle eyes are back on you again. They settle their attention there, their brightness given to you, and the warm flood of their affection. "Diolch," he murmurs. "I needed to hear that. And... you're right. I'm having a hard time with the change. A hard time with the separation. I'm under a lot of pressure, all self-directed." His mouth twists with a small smile. "That's what happens when you're not around," Iowerth drolls. "I don't have you to pick on so I start looking for other targets. It's good to see you," he says seriously after a moment of teasing.

     "I'm only wise about other people's problems. When it comes to my own, I'm shite out of luck." Your brother grins at you a little. "Fortunately, I avoid - for the most part - problems which can't be solved with the judicious application of brute force." He fingers the bandage on his arm meaningfully. "Which causes its own problems, oes? But it's very satisfying, sometimes."
     He looks at you, emerald eyes intent on you. "Seems to me that the two of you have been tight as two peas for long enough that without the other right there at all times, you don't entirely know who you are. You've been able to deal with it by being - well, you're the king, you know. Or will be. He's lost more, and had more building to do. And he's done it. And then he comes back, and neither of you quite knows how to just /be/ with one another, except maybe in bed when there isn't much talking to be done." Gwilym's lips twitch faintly. "Didn't we go through something like this, brawd?"
     With a low sigh, Gwilym pulls himself forward, sprawling next to you on the bed and folding his arms under his head. "Let me ask you something. Is this," one hand comes out, gestures, and is put back, "what you want to do? Being king. I think it is and I happen to think you'd make a good one. It's important work. But you seem to be taking it so seriously that you're in danger of your hair turning brown." He grins a little at you, ducking down as if expecting to be smacked for it, then says more seriously, "Don't take things so much to heart, Io. Not every word is fraught with meaning. Not every dream is a prophecy. But," he adds with that light touch, "it is good to see me as well."

     "It is what I want to do," he quietly confirms. "And I will listen to you about... taking everything to heart. I think I do, too much. And do too much. It will be better when I can delegate more," he continues, his hand giving you a pat at last (a pat and a gentle, boyish shove), "...and... oes... last night with him reminded me a lot of you and me. Today, especially. We were just not communicating. Talking," his hand moves in puppet imitation, "... but not hearing."
     Iowerth slants a smile, giving you sideways look. "Egomaniac." He says nothing for a time after that, needing the quiet. His thoughts have been so loud. "I love you anyway, you know. And...thanks for talking some sense into me. I feel better now. A bit better anyway."
     Turning his head on his pillow, he looks at you pointedly. "I wonder why we aren't better with change, knowing that it is the only constant state of the universe. We know better, you and I. But maybe," he grins, "...I should leave you out of it. You look like you're doing well..."

     "We are stubborn, and we like to win. And change is something we can do nothing about, Io; like it or not, things will change, and all our efforts to halt it, prevent it or alter it will be for naught." Gwilym grins at you, though there's still that sympathy in his expression. "Work, I guess, on that 'hearing' part."
     He's quiet for a moment as well, turning his head to look out the window. "I've been better, and I've been worse. I've been busy, which for me is always better than having nothing to do." He peers out at the sea, then rolls on his side, patting your hip as he looks up to you. "I'm going to London on an errand soon," he tells you quietly. There is emphasis in that, which is dismissed when he adds carelessly a moment later, "Want me to bring you anything back?"

     "Other than yourself? Hmm... I can't think of anything. Call me before you go. That could change." He does not ask you what the errand is. Your business is your own. But you can see curiosity rimming his eyes as surely as the seafoam green that lingers there. "Steal me something to read," he counters a moment later. "I am in need of a good book."
     Neither you nor he do well with quiet, with what people on the material plane refer to as down time. It simply isn't in your vocabulary, not how your energy works. And yet you fight change as if it were the Devil himself, even though you know it is the way to the only peace of mind you ever get.
     "Bring it back yourself so I know you lived through your errand," Iowerth smirks. "No message birds bearing gifts." A trick he has used on more than one occasion himself. "I will work on it. Hearing, that is. And ... will try not to take everything so seriously. It won't be easy, I know myself. But... I did hear you, oes?" I did hear you.
     A quick and strong brotherly hug follows, his hand patting the back of your neck. "Well, whatever you're up to, it seems to agree with you," Iowerth murmurs. "You look and seem grand, ready to take on the world. I feel like my head's going to pop like a grape beneath an elephant's foot, personally..."

     He smiles at you fondly, returning the hug and straightening then from the bed. "I live more shallowly than you, is all. I don't spend as much time thinking deep and lofty thoughts. I do less planning and more conniving; less war-making and more brawling. Right now, there isn't much going on, and since the assassin failed, there'll be a few less attempts for a little while. Mine is not a job with a healthy retirement plan, I fear."
     Gwilym stands up, stretching and groaning. "If your boy is on his way back, I shouldn't stay," he decides. "It sounds as if you two will need your privacy, Io. My advice? Wine him and dine him. Make the effort to impress him with yourself, rather than your titles, your accomplishments, your throne. Don't hide behind your relationship with him, and don't hide behind what you happen to be. We're both bad at that; at being naked instead of merely nude."
     He sighs, rolling his eyes. "There I go again. I should get a column writing for the Daily Mirror." Gwilym mimics a falsetto. "Dear Old Auntie Ethel, my boyfriend keeps calling shorter and shorter. I am wondering if there is another woman. What ought I to do? Sincerely, Worried, Distressed and Confused." He turns his head, offering you a lopsided grin, one eyebrow arched. "Don't beat yourself up," he says softly. "If he loves you, he'll be back. You set him free, oes? And he came back."

     Iowerth laughs, despite himself. That's your handiwork, that sound. "Auntie Ethel. You know I'm going to call you that from here on out." He nods, putting a hand to his head as he starts to rise. He's starkers, and starting to work on a hangover. "I should make myself presentable, just in the off chance he's coming by. I can't look like a bloody mess, no matter what the insides are like."
     Using a blanket as a robe, he covers himself for the walk to the bath, a walk currently paused to bid farewell to you. "I don't try to impress him with my titles," he gruffs. "We rarely talk about it. Mostly we talk about him being gone and my being unhappy about it." Iowerth cackles, "Auntie Ethel."
     He takes a breath, holds it a moment, and releases it with a great sigh. A clearing breath, to be sure. "Diolch," he murmurs. "And try not to get yourself killed, Gwi. Much as I hate you popping around being right all the time, I would hate it if you died. Be careful, huh? And call me from London, you know the number." He points to his temple; you know what he means.

     "Yes, dearie," your brother tells you in that cracked falsetto. "Just remember, no man will buy the cow if he can get the milk for free. Don't be too loose with your favours, now!" He waggles an admonishing finger at you, grinning like the devil as he ducks back.
     "I will try not to get killed. If I do, I am sure you will avenge me. Someone will have to, oes? Who will pay my gambling debts if not you?" Gwilym waggles fingers in farewell. "Much as I hate to kiss and run, but the less to explain to your lover when there are already storm clouds on the horizon, the better, I should think. I will call instead of write. You will pay the phone bill."
     He is almost manic, isn't he? But there; he is going, going, gone. Only his words in your head still ring. I'll meet up with you in your kingdom when I get back. Try not to change the locks til then, oes? Toodle-oo, Worried, Distressed and Confused...

     Iowerth smirks. "Worried, Distressed and Confused." His eyebrows arch up and he exhales. It does sort of suit him at the moment...

Posted by rowan at September 18, 2006 09:00 PM