He has had time to think. It's a shame when thinking doesn't work, yes? But he has had the time, and he's managed to pull himself more or less together; Leon has been left back at his chambers, though, and he's showered, dressed, and returned to the docks. This time, he has not brought his collapsible bridge; this time, instead, he's borrowed, begged, bought or stolen a small one-man skiff, which he has rowed out to where your ship is docked.
     He's made his way up onto the dock (although not without help from your dragon-servants), and shaking loose the droplets of sea-water that rowing can't help but cause, he's crossed the deck and come down the stairs to meet you. He is not sure how he will find you. Will you be happy to see him? Angry? Melancholy? He does not know, and it colours his expression with the faintest hint of trepidation, like lavender.
     "Io?" Tiernan calls it softly as he comes down the stairs, leaning forward as he braces himself on the handrails. "Where are you..." What should I do... what do you want, what do I want... how is it that you confuse me so much - but it's me that confuses me, as much as it is you...
     I'm here for dinner, comes the light call. Anything good on the table?

     The papers that were scattered over the floors and tables of the main quarters have been rolled up and put neatly away. Plans are set aside for now, and in the place of maps and blueprints, there are candles and those floating oil lamps set free from the bedchamber to float in the otherwise darkness of the captain's main quarters. Beneath your feet, the universe of united kingdoms glow, their own city and village lights flickering here and there, wherever they exist. The ship's own position on the map pulses as a quasar.
     The low table has been set for dinner: two plates, two heavy cups waiting to be filled, and a selection of wines rest nearby. The food has yet to appear, but you know where a table is set food cannot be far behind.
     "What would you like?" Iowerth's voice is sudden, much as his appearance from the bedchamber. He has changed his attire from earlier. He wears a midnight tunic whose metal clasps remain undone, the focus placed upon the tattoos themselves. They are his adornment, his vestments. Besides this are the familiar leathers, these also of a deep blue. He has left his feet bare. And you can tell by the condensation on the air that he has recently bathed. His hair is shocking fiery copper, burnished brass by the bobbing lights, dry as the rest of him. "Beef pies? I am always in the mood for beef pies. Buttered rolls."
     Iowerth comes forward to greet you. He doesn't apologize or beg for forgiveness. He merely comes to you, stands in your space, and surrounds you in a hug. Lips brush the edge of a cheekbone as he pulls away to return your space to you. He is not melancholy, though he has been. He is not angry, though he has been. At this moment, with you here, he is grateful. "What do you feel like eating? You know your wish is my command."

     He turns to see you, watching you quietly as you come close, his arms draping around your waist as he bends to claim a kiss. One hand rises, touching your face for a moment. He wears simple clothes; jeans, a crew-neck sweater which could be of this world or that equally, in heather grey and green. No jewelry and no cloak, though on his feet are a pair of sturdy boots.
     And he is suddenly tongue-tied, as tongue-tied as when he first met you, peering across at you cautiously with those intense blue eyes. "...Beef pies would be fine," Tiernan says finally. His hand pats at your hip, then releases. "Maybe some water to drink. I could stand to clear my palate."

     "Sure," he says easily, quietly. He does not turn from you, his eyes still looking into your own, his arms still around you. The table is filled with beef pies and buns, the finest of Welsh cooking, with venison and partridge tossed in for good measure. A large pitcher of water appears along with it, with a selection of fruit to flavor it, should such be desired.
     A kiss claimed is a kiss given. It is tender at first, but then fire seems to pluck at its edges, his mouth suckling at your lips before freeing them. Iowerth turns, gesturing for you to take a seat. The table is a low table ringed not by chairs but by large floor cushions. "I could as well," he notes with a bit of a smile. "I think I have had enough to drink for one day."
     He seems sober, and he is now. But there were hours where he was not. No evidence seems to linger, only that of the bath and the restoration it provided. "How are the cats?" Plural. Soon to be exceedingly plural. Iowerth takes a place at the table, waiting to lower to a pillow once you have. "Is there anything else you'd like while I'm up?"

     I love you...
     Why does this pull at my heart? Why is this so difficult for us? I am making things difficult, I know...
     "It smells good," Tiernan smiles at you, a faint, bittersweet expression as you free him. He turns to see the table, moving over to it. "The cats are doing fine. Leon is very proud of himself, very self-satisfied. But then, I suppose all cats are, aren't they? He refuses to tell me how he did it - the growing, I mean," he adds hurriedly, face going suddenly red. "Says she's demanding and bitchy to him, so he'll be glad when the litter drops."
     Small talk about feline pregnancies. He shakes his head, bemused at himself, and reaches down to the cushions, dragging several of them together in a heap before he sinks onto them. His hand pats at them, and he looks to you in invitation. "I know what I want." He looks at you with sudden attentiveness, waiting for you to join him. "Come here. Please."

     "Oes?" he wonders easily. Wonder is easy for him to achieve. Iowerth comes to you as you ask. Standing in your space, he reaches down, his fingers skimming your hair. He does not ask you what you want. You will tell him, or show him, soon enough. Lowering to a knee, and then to his other, he sits beside you, adding his weight to the piles of cushions.
     His look is open, curious. It is bemused and it is heated. As he looks from your eyes to your lips and back to your eyes, he puts his feelings on display. I love you. I'm not sure why it has to be so fraught with drama.
     "I never thought we'd be talking about Leon's love life," sounds his voice, his drawling humor returning to him. "Did you? I meant to laugh before. It is rather funny, don't you think? Poor Lady Sangria. It couldn't have been comfortable."
     His lips spread in a wicked smile. "It gives the phrase Hard as a diamond a bit of a new meaning, doesn't it." Iowerth grins then, his laughter converting to an audible chuckle.

     His lips twitch. "Thankfully for her, I was too young to know anything about the anatomy of real male cats," Tiernan murmurs. "Deus... if I'd thought to try for that level of realism, well - I'd owe your mother a new cat. What would the punishment be, for killing the queen's cat inadvertently by way of - you know, I'm not even going to finish this sentence."
     He shakes his head a little, then turns towards you, reaching for your hand with a sudden alteration of his face from that amusement to seriousness; sobriety. "I could be anywhere in two worlds right now," Tiernan says quietly. "I'm not here because I have to be; not out of duty or loyalty, though both would be persuasive arguments. I am here because I love you, and because where you are is where I want to be. That has not changed. I don't want to take up residence in that other world full-time; both it and this world have their charms, but neither on its own makes a compelling argument for eternity. And maybe I shouldn't talk of eternity and other romantic, poetic, foolish notions. I love you. If I were a woman and you want to marry me, I'd say yes. It's as simple as that."
     His smile is as lopsided as yours and your brother's usually are, but it is there; and then he releases your hand and looks away. "Here's hoping we can keep the news of your mother's cat's pregnancy from her better than we did the news of our relationship, yes?"

     "Yes, please, don't," he begs you. He doesn't really want to know (at all) how it works, or even as it is how it happened. "If the queen gave the punishment, who knows. My father'd probably want to buy you a drink or dinner or give you a brand new car. He hates cats." With good reason, his father would say: they're evil.
     He takes your hand, he holds it. His thumb moves back and forth (tide and ebb) against your skin. He listens and he hears you. Iowerth looks to you as you finish. "If you were a woman, my search for a queen would be over. You're not a woman, and I wouldn't want you to be. I love you for who you are, whether you are Here or There, Tiernan. You are where you should be. It's as simple as that. And I do understand it."
     Hands are released and glasses of water are poured. The water is so crystalline it appears silver in the cups. Iowerth smiles at your toast, laughing a little on a breath. "We could certainly not do worse," he notes. "Here's to secrecy," he smirks, touching his glass to yours.
     After the toast, his glass set aside, Iowerth begins filling up his plate with beef pasties and quince and quail pies. Better grab some while you can. You know his appetite.
     "I love you, too," Iowerth murmurs, looking at you as he begins to open up the pasties. Scented steam, flavored with meat and fruit, lifts from the exposed innards of the pasties. "And because I love you, I support whatever decision you make for your own well-being. And I'll try to do so with a bit more grace this time," Iowerth tacks on, his mouth slanting to the side as he goes to fill it with the savory food.

     He smiles at you, reaching for his plate and grabbing some of the food before you can quite get all of it. "Then we're in the clear," Tiernan says quietly, "for now, at least. I intend to surprise you, by the way." How, he doesn't say. He takes bread and some of the quince and quail, pulling his water glass closer after fulfilling the toast.
     That smile keeps turning onto you; brief, faint, but seeming omnipresent. There. But he has so little to say.

Posted by rowan at September 18, 2006 09:16 PM