"Life is good."
     Tiernan states this casually to his companions of the moment - two young men and a young woman of middle class appearance, clerkly in demeanor. He pauses to lean down to inhale fragrant spices at a table, then straightens, tucking a hand behind his back while he gestures to the surroundings with his other. "This isn't some grand philosophy, you understand; I'm not saying there is no suffering anywhere, any time. But I've always felt that no matter what fate throws at me, there is always something - some reason to continue on in life."
     The marketplace is bustling. Winter may be shutting down most sea trade, but trade continues year round up and down the coast, and on a day like today - a relatively mild day at that - plenty of people are out and about. The three who find themselves in Tiernan's company look to be around of an age with himself; a little younger or a little older, perhaps, but not by much in either direction. Their behavior implies a servitude, the respectful air of listening to someone who pays for something. It is not unnoticed by the erstwhile prince.
     "I'm not expecting you to cringe when I speak," Tiernan says mildly to them. "I - oh, well, never mind. Go on back to the warehouse, you lot; see if you can start figuring out what we'll need for next month. I'll go over the figures and predictions with you when I get back later or tomorrow." He flaps a hand in dismissal, an amusement to his resignation as he turns instead to the booths.
     He is dressed well today. Expensively, but a quiet sort of expense; simple clothes with only undercurrents of luxury and cost. Black leggings paired with a dual-colored tunic of blue and white, thinly striped, heavy boots with their cuffs folded over; his coat is long and a dark burgundy red with gold buttons and black lining. Now he tucks his hands into his pockets, making his way through the booths and tents, sniffing the air in search of food.
     Where - ah. Off to the side is a roped-in little courtyard, presently largely deserted; the weather is only just so nice, and most people prefer to eat indoors. It is populated by a staff of one at present; a clear-eyed young man with short, dark green hair and almost translucent wings serving up a local dish similar to puttanesca. "Good afternoon," Tiernan calls amiably, stepping over the rope and making his way to the counter, blue gaze going to the posted menu. Chalked-in drawings illustrate the dishes. "...Spiced wine, and a bowl of that, then. I think that's a good start."

     Rome wasn't built in a day, and though his Roman-like islands were constructed in far less time than the Republic-then-Empire, they shall require many more days to fill their buildings and marketplaces. Years, in fact. Until the weather turned, ships were leaving the docks daily, loaded with goods for the new kingdom -- supplies for the soldiers already garrisoned there, and goods and materials to fill the markets. The bolder merchants are going now, even at this late date; many more will find the islands in the spring when the winter-tossed waves won't make the going so difficult.
     The Draigamor returned just yesterday evening, slowly easing into port and returning the crown prince to the place of his birth. He has seldom been seen, though sightings of the prince blossomed throughout the villages and city. He was seen drinking in Castle Gate; he was heard wooing a lady outside a pub in Thief's Alley.
     The truth is, he was in neither place, nor in the hundred others where he was reportedly viewed or heard doing any number of things. He spent the evening of his arrival on his ship. This afternoon finds him finally disembarking, his unhurried stride leading him from the docks to the marketplace.
     One day, one day soon in fact, his own markets will be bustling with commerce, with trade, with speculation of trade. The air will hum with transactions and many languages will swirl to make one cacophonous tongue. As Iowerth Rhudd Draig strolls through his mother's markets, he smiles at the thoughts, at his imagination. Hammers on anvils, the call of fishmongers, the throng of spice traders -- these harmonies will play against a backdrop of lectures and races, games and discourse.
     He looks forward to it, to be honest. He is ready. And for now he can simply enjoy the fruits of his mother's labors, without having to worry about handling the disputes that naturally follow on the heels of such trading. He can take in the music, as it were, without having to worry about paying the musicians. Hands clasped behind his back, he smiles as he wanders.

     Where you have been busy, so has he. Neither of you can abide overmuch idleness; just as neither of you can abide yes-men, it seems, nor in truth can abide loneliness, no matter how it forces its way in. Tiernan has been busy with his own business; his own contracts. When spring comes, his ships, already three in number, will be joining the throngs heading towards your kingdom. Not just as carriers of goods, no; he has spent his time hiring consultants and contractors, engineers and mathematicians of all sorts. Even magic must have a grounding in something, and it is skilled labour that your lover has been acquiring.
     But at the moment, your lover is content to eat - but not alone. He has cajoled the cook-busboy-waiter-jack of all trades out from behind his counter with an easy grin and a few coins. "Pull up a chair and join me. Not like anyone's going to care, right? So how long have you been running this by yourself?"
     The young man is not easily overwhelmed, living and working right on the docks as he does; but it's still not an every day occurrence, this. "Three years," he says carefully. He is watching Tiernan carefully, as a bird watches a snake coming gradually nearer the nest. What does this rich young man want?
     "Long time," Tiernan says peaceably, picking up his fork. "Excellent pasta, by the way. Reminds me of the food in Venice when I was there." He is in no hurry. It will happen or it won't. He is unaware of his lover's return, or it wouldn't even be an issue - or would it?

     All markets have a rhythm to them, the back and forth of hands exchanging coins and cash, the percussion of bags being filled, crates set down, all syncopated with conversations. Iowerth unconsciously hums to it, a lilting, lifting and lowering thing, that hummed song. It has no words, nor does he compose any. He merely hums as he walks.
     Food vendors are peppered amid the other stands and shops -- merchants and shoppers alike get hungry after a day's trading. The various smells and flavors cover the air, mixing with that of the nearby ocean, the fishmongers and spice traders, and the fire and smoke from the blacksmiths.
     Though the stroll is frequently interrupted -- it is difficult for the crown prince to shop anonymously -- Iowerth is able to browse without having too many hangers on or followers. There are a few obligatory stalkers, but he ignores those. As he wanders up the road and aisles, passing near several food booths, his mind is given to wonder: Where is Tiernan, I wonder. Busy at work, I suppose.
     The very thought makes him grin. He is proud of Tiernan, and quite relieved that he has his own occupation. Things have worked out quite well, to be honest. Despite my efforts in many cases. Chuckling to himself, Iowerth waves off a curious merchant. "No nothing for me, thank you. I am just looking."
     The scent of savory meats and sauces tug at him like the sea's undertow, pulling his feet toward it without his recognizing it.

     There is a white grin offered to the green-haired young man - by now, he has been coaxed out of his wariness, his chary distrust of a stranger (and a moneyed stranger at that). He has given his name (Otto), his background, his age - before long, he will be willingly giving even more. A dark head is inclined in towards that green hair, his voice low and confiding - friendly, but with temptation offered underneath the casual inquiry. An idle hand rests oh so near the other young man's wrist, and Tiernan lazily touches two fingertips to the inside of that wrist, testing to see if the pulse jumps.
     "Your food is delicious. I will have to come here more often, with such a strong attraction to draw me. Do you like to cook, or is it just a job to you?"
     His back is to the world, the low-slung canvas canopy of the counter the only thing between them and the sea, the market at his back. Tiernan leans forward unhurriedly, reaching for the pitcher of wine and filling the glasses back up with a leisurely hand.
     Working hard? Hardly working, more like. But every man needs some downtime, doesn't he? As he pours, he leans in to whisper something to Otto, lips grazing the fairy youth's ear. "I think I know why you like it here..."

     He picks up a quince fruit along the way to stave off the hunger as he passes temptation after culinary temptation. Many others don't even make the attempt as the stands for meats and cheeses become suddenly crowded. Iowerth Rhudd Draig becomes strangely anonymous with the competition of such treats. To be honest, he's glad for that as he strolls up one of the lesser walked areas, the food stands a bit more off the beaten track and toward the sea.
     The smell of meats and sugary treats blends there with that of the salt surf. He imagines as he wanders quietly that his own market will sound, smell, seem like this. Such a realization agitates the heart, lifts the blood in excitement, in the anxiousness that comes with pleasured anticipation.
     Who needs alcohol with such Possibility in the air?
     Rounding a turn, Iowerth pauses at a stand of sugared nuts, eating his quince fruit as he reaches into his pocket for coins. He is clothed as any tourist here, or any tourist Anywhere. The midnight leathers are the most expensive of his garments, but they show the signs of age (and a few whip and rapier marks). Over this, he wears a simple midnight blue tunic sweater. The most remarkable thing about him is how fiery his hair seems amid all that dark blue. Otherwise, he blends into the wintery scenery.
     Turning, warm and spiced nuts filling a pouch, he turns to head onward with a smile and a nod to the vendor. The closer to the sea he gets, the more brisk the air becomes. It turns his cheeks, ears and nose pink.

     One hand goes to the small of the green-haired young man's back, brushing the base of his spine (and, truth be told, a little lower) as Tiernan reaches with his other hand leisurely to the plates. He takes from one of the accompanying plates an oiled pepper, lifting it, looking at it and then looking at his companion. "So," he asks casually, "how hot are these?"
     Without waiting for an answer, he lets his tongue glide absently through the oiled coating, then takes it between his teeth, crunching down on the pale orange and green flesh. There's an audible pop of it giving way, and he chews without wincing, gaze not leaving Otto's face. "Surprised?" He smiles. "I've dealt with harsher than this. Here. Let me show you the best way to enjoy one of these... hm?"
     The remainder of the fruit is taken, chewed, swallowed, all without moving back, all without taking that wandering hand from the base of the boy's back. Carefully, Tiernan wipes his fingers free of oil, then brings them to under Otto's chin, guiding it up; turning the youth's face with gentle direction. It is done slowly; so slowly that if there will be flight, it will be easy to escape - but so slowly that escape seems ludicrous. It isn't as if he's controlling things - is he?
     And so the first kiss lands gently, a press of two lips against two lips that nonetheless encourages opposing lips to part with the downwards slide of it. The second kiss follows the first with a roll of his tongue so that the lingering heat of the pepper, essence crushed by strong white teeth from oils, flesh and seeds, is shared, run along his companion's tongue and inner cheeks and the roof of his mouth with broad swathes of his tongue; as if in sharing the pepper, the younger man is devoured next.
     Unhurriedly, Tiernan leans back, his hand coming away from Otto's chin with a gentle pat to his cheek. He reaches for the spiced wine, taking a sip and setting it down; the hand at his back now goes to his waist, keeping him pressed thigh to thigh. As if there had been a time for escape which now has passed. "You should have some of your own wine, you know. It's quite delicious."

     Yes, it is a good deal more brisk near the booths that reside so close to the sea -- it is easy enough to see why these paths are nearly deserted. The warmth emanating from the sack of spiced nuts is decidedly warmer than any of the surrounding air. Quince finished (and pit tossed to the cobble for the birds and squirrels), Iowerth reaches into the sack, fishing out one of the walnuts.
     The scents of savory meat, of noodles, calls him. It is not far and promises a good deal more warmth than a simple sack of quickly cooling nuts for certes.
     Such a lead in...
     It is certainly a good deal warmer in that booth, as two young men (one winged, one not) are making out in the back by the canvas flap, unregarding of any passersby. Iowerth moves, about to give them privacy, when something pricks his attention. He pauses, staring, until realization smacks him right in the face.
     That's Tiernan in there, mauling a fairy boy...
     No, it couldn't be... he's working, it's the middle of the afternoon...
     It looks like him...sounds like him...
     Well, shite, you git -- if it looks like him and sounds like him then it IS him...
     It can't be...
     All of the swooshing shock in his ears is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Iowerth Rhudd Draig's voice. "Sorry," he says as the other two are in mid-kiss -- he doesn't even realize when the kiss is ended, nor does he really hear what you say, Tiernan, right after. Shock is crashing in his ears like waves, his head an empty sea-shell resounding with it. "... to interrupt," though by his tone, he's not sorry at all, "... are you working? Or do you want me to close the flap on my way out so you can fuck in peace?"
     He doesn't even realize how rude that was. He's far too shocked for that. The pink flesh that had turned with the brisk weather is now crimson with the fire and heat of shock and jealousy.
     ...Though to the uninitiated in Iowerth Rhudd Draig, it could simply come off as severe embarrassment...

     The green-haired boy is a good deal more shocked than you are, if that's even possible. Letting himself be mauled by a nobleman was shocking enough; being caught at it - by a prospective customer - well, he hasn't even had the time or the brain power to make synapses click well enough for recognition's sake. He's up and out of his seat like a rocket; canvas flaps as he dives into his 'kitchen'.
     Tiernan, on the other hand, remains seated. There's a rise of colour to his face - yes, he is surprised to see you. His own emotions are suddenly in a blender; what would have been pleasure at seeing you mingled with shock and rising irritation at the rudeness, the belligerence driving it. For a moment, Tiernan narrows his eyes; he sets his shoulders, then picks up his wine.
     "I don't tend to put the dessert right after the appetizer, let alone before," Tiernan says simply, looking at you. "Care for a glass of wine, or are you in a hurry to be somewhere else? Hello, by the way."

     He doesn't know what to do or say. Part of him wants to clock you. Part of him wants to clock the green-haired boy. Part of him wants to clock both of you AND the tent. Another part of him just wants to eat the nuts and go back to his ship. And so Iowerth stands there, riveted in place.
     Soon, the fairy-boy is gone into hiding and his nuts have gone cold, so he's quickly running out of options...
     Shock keeps him where he is, red-faced and gaping at you. It's as if you stood up and slapped him across the face. He's not sure whether to be hurt or to knock you flat on your arse. And he knows he can't talk to you here, not out in the open and not about this. Not yet. After he's crowned king, fine. Before? That is not in the plan, nor is announcing to the world in no uncertain terms that you and he are romantically involved.
     "I'm going to the ship," he manages to say -- no small effort there, between the tightening of his jaw and the stiffening of anger. "You don't have to follow. I ... see that you are busy..." His mouth twists and sharp eyes look toward the kitchen. "You can come out now... I'm leaving..."
     "No thanks," Iowerth says to you. "I'm rather too sober for wine." Too sober indeed. Had he been drunk, the sight of you and the fairy-boy would have sobered him. That he started out sober to begin with rather makes his disposition even more dry. As a tinderbox in fact. "Don't stop on my account..."
     Iowerth turns, heading out of the booth area and as soon as he clears the flap he takes to the air, transforming to a seagull, the bag of nuts held looped in his beak. He rides the air currents, clearing the canopies of the vendors tents and out to the first pier, that reserved for The Draigamor.

     Now the question becomes, to stay or to go. Tiernan watches you, saying nothing; what could he say which would make this easier, less painful, for him or for you? He waits, watches as you turn to go; starts to speak, but instead presses his lips together, a hand lifting to his forehead as his eyes close. Headache. He has a headache.
     You leave, and he does not follow. Not right away, no; instead, he goes into the kitchen at a leisurely pace. Soft words are given to the young man, and after a little bit of that, soft kisses and a brief embrace that ends with a clap to the back. Only then does a small handful of golden coins make its way from his hand to the boy's - for the food, of course. Green hair is ruffled, and then Tiernan makes his way out of the tent.
     He doesn't stop along the way to buy wine or flowers or chocolates or anything else. Instead, he makes his way at a steady but unrushed pace to the pier where he knows the Draigamor will be, to where the gangplank is when you are allowing people on board. But he does not assume. Instead, burgundy coat now buttoned closed, Tiernan comes to a halt, looking at the ship; waiting.
     If an arrow whizzes by my nose, that will be telling...

     One should listen for cannon to know the captain's displeasure. And believe it, he was tempted to back The Draigamor out of dock and into the bay to let a few rounds go. But, no, he decided to take the high road. To be... mature about it. He distanced himself from the situation so he could blow up in private.
     The explosion consisted of his foot, the private quarter's door, and a round of darts. With short swords.
     The gangplank is lowered and the dragons look at you as you arrive. "Greetings, Lord of Winter," they quietly hail as you approach. And they share a look, those dragons who make up the gangplank itself: Should we warn him? We do rather like him.
     "Whatever happened to the notion of discretion?" The door to his chamber -- the grand captain's quarters of this most royal vessel -- stands open, his voice sounds distant. As well it should, coming from the bowels of the great ship. He is talking to himself. It is a rhetorical question. He doesn't know you're here, let alone if you can hear him.
     He is tugging the short swords out of the wall by the time you arrive at the pier. "Am I talking to myself?" Well, he realizes he is NOW, but the rhetorical question touches upon conversations past. "Fondling someone... in broad," tug, "...daylight," tug. "Practically," tug, "...humping on the tables," tug.
     The short swords clatter as they are dropped. But then, needing something to do, Iowerth goes about cleaning -- in anger -- the very mess he made when his ire first erupted. The swords are put back in their cases and back in the chest. The door, though remaining ajar from when he kicked it, is repaired with the wave of his hand, and so too the holes in the wall that the swords created when the wood was sliced.
     By the time you see him, that is if you're brave enough to peek inside, he's standing in the middle of the quarter's great living area, hands on his hips and body trembling. The redness hasn't left his face yet.

     "Thank you." His answer is equally quiet, a wryness to his smile. He makes his way by slow steps into the belly of the ship, gradually down. He isn't entirely keen on the idea of being savaged by your temper - but neither is he keen on running away.
     Which is why your lover taps lightly on the door rather than just walks in. "Sounds like I'm interrupting," Tiernan says mildly from the other side of the threshold. He folds his arms over his chest, watching you in your rage - but from the other side of that doorway. He is not presuming to cross without invitation. "Would you rather I leave, or would you rather talk to me now?"
     He is calm; not quite formal, but close to it, the blue of his gaze locked onto you. Unmoving. Unyielding. He does not withdraw...

     He is a palate of blues and reds. His cheeks are every bit as fiery as his hair as he lifts his head to your voice. Amid all that red is a shock of purple, the blue-lavender of those periwinkle eyes. Though cool of color, the emotion they convey is on the other side of the spectrum. Iowerth folds his arms against his chest, his mouth canting in a sideways frown. He is not capable of polite conversation at the moment. He knows you know this, but he motions you in (and commands you to close the door with the same gesture) all the same.
     "I'm not sure I'm in the mood to talk about it," comes the too-dry tone of his voice. It sounds emotionless but his every expression and his very complexion belies that. "I'm not sure there's anything to talk about. Your tongue was in his mouth, your arm around his waist. A few minutes later and I'd have walked in on you ...." his frown deepens and his jaw tightens, "... pounding him into the table. I just wanted some roasted peppers. It's fucking cold out there today. Well, not that YOU noticed, your tongue down another man's throat..."
     It's not to say he didn't warn you. His color still high and his gaze peeling from you, Iowerth turns to the chamber's bar. He's going for the whiskey. In his condition, he's liable to explode upon impact. "You want that drink now or are you still more in the mood for watered down wine and green-haired, slight-winged fairy boys?"

     He enters the room, closing the door behind him, eyebrows lifting just slightly as he listens to you. "I'm sorry that I did you out of your roasted peppers," Tiernan says simply. He could add, though it's more that you did yourself out of them; but he doesn't. He moves to take a seat, continuing to watch you.
     His shoulders are tensed, still, though he gives so little outward sign of his own emotions. You show everything; he, on the other hand, withdraws inside of himself. Like always. He leans forward against his thighs a bit, elbows propped, hands loosely together as he watches you move. "If I ask for a drink, will I get it in a glass or thrown in my face?"

     "You should know me better than that by now," he says, already starting to pour. "I'd never waste alcohol." He glances at you. "Bourbon or wine? You seemed ready for wine," among other things, "...I have a bottle or two I'm sure." He has a bottle or twelve at least, with cases in the hull to be sure. "I'm sorry that I did you out of your roasted pepper boy."
     Iowerth pauses, glancing up at the ceiling and then at you as he waits for your drink preference. "Why am I apologizing? I take it back. I'm not sorry I did you out of your roasted pepper boy. If you wanted to take time off of work to have a romp, I'm just curious as to why I wasn't called. My ship's been here for twenty-four hours. And hello to you too, by the by."
     He doesn't have the patience to wait for you to give a preference. You get a glass of wine and a bourbon chaser to do with as you wish. The glasses are set upon the sofa table quite gently and without further comment. Iowerth turns back to the bar, his clipping stride carrying him there most swiftly and with martial efficiency. He takes up the bottle of bourbon and his glass, heading for a seat on the large sofa.
     "That was the last thing I expected to see, in the middle of the afternoon while strolling the marketplace," Iowerth murmurs. He downs the bourbon as he sits back, his feet clomping on the sofa's surface as his heels come to bear. It takes all the restraint he can muster not to hurl his glass to shatter against the wall, the floor, or your head.
     "Aren't you supposed to be saying: I'm sorry, love. It was a momentary lapse of reason. You're the only man I want. I should have called on you...?" He's looking at you then, eyebrows cocked high. Well?

     He picks up the wine, leaning back as he listens to you, as he watches you. "First of all," Tiernan says steadily, "I didn't know you were here. You're welcome to disbelieve me if you want, but," he shrugs, "I've never lied to you yet; I don't intend to start over something like this."
     The wine is lifted to his lips; sipped, but not savored, not truly tasted. "I worked most of the morning; I finished less than an hour before you walked in. Feel free to question my staff if you really feel it necessary." His voice is a bit distant, as if he is detaching himself from his words; all emotion, tamped down to within as with the ramrod used on a cannon. "I can tell you where to find them."
     He sits upright, keeping his spine straight as dark lashes fall to veil his eyes for a moment; he inhales slowly, then lets it out. "Am I supposed to be saying that? Sorry, I suppose I wasn't aware that we were following a script." He looks at you. "I also wasn't aware, from everything we've talked about, from everything we've agreed upon, that we were foreswearing all others. Or is it just that I didn't go to a brothel that makes it wrong, Io? Does paying for it somehow make it better?"
     He sets his glass down, pushing up to his feet. You are angry; so is he. "I am sorry that it hurt you. I didn't expect you to walk in then and there, and I didn't anticipate it hurting you. But I'm not sorry for finding time to relax in the company of some boy who I probably would never see again when I had the time and you weren't - as far as I knew - around. Are we writing in new rules, Io? I'm not allowed to sleep with anyone but you? Is that it?"

     "My arrivals are usually the worst kept secrets in town," he levies it at you with an even tone to his voice though his expression is anything but even. The more you say, the more upset he gets. Iowerth sets the drinks aside. Adding alcohol onto the open flame of his disposition, he realizes, is not the smartest move. "If you want to go out, go out. You don't need to stay."
     He rises from his seat and pulls off his sweater. His hands go to his hair, raking the short, thick strands of it back. They stick out, shorn short as they are. "If you had caught me seducing some random boy, what would your reaction be? What would you want to hear, Tiernan? I should expect no less."
     Iowerth neither explains his new expectations, if there are any, nor reiterates old understandings. He looks at you a moment and then heads for his bedroom. You can follow if you wish, or you can remain where you are. The door is left open.
     He needs the distance to cool off. At least he's making the attempt, unsuccessful as it is at the moment. The bed sounds with his sudden and mighty weight. His sigh sounds no less loudly. Saying you can sleep with whomever you choose and seeing you do this are two very different things. I thought you would be ... giddy to see me so upset for your cause. Don't you like it this way? Me in a tumult and you first and foremost in my mind? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you planned it. But I do know better. So I shall chalk it up to my rotten fucking luck. I want to shoot cannons into the marketplace. He pauses. But I won't.
     He throws an arm over his eyes, blocking out the light of the retreating sun. You'd retreat too if you knew what was good for you. One arm over his eyes, his other spread out on the bed surface, Iowerth lies sprawled. One foot rests upon the surface of the bed, his knee bent, his thigh moving back and forth in thought, in uproarious energy.
     A little jealousy, and it fuels his passion. Too much, and it can fuel all the tempests of the sea. You hear him hum softly, a soothing tune to relax him. It is... quite soothing. His voice, so seldom lifted in melody, is... beautiful... bewitching. He looks like a sailor washed up on the rocky shore from a jealous storm...

     "I told you," he insists quietly, "I was working. It doesn't leave much time for gossip. I went to get some lunch, and..." Tiernan shakes his head. Your sigh is echoed from his lips. "If I caught you seducing some random boy - I'm not you, Io. And I've always known that you would have lovers other than me. I have had to learn to subdue any emotional reactions - to remind myself that it is me that you love and wish to be with, and otherwise, to let it go. Because in the long run, I know something about loneliness, and if someone can lift it from you for a little while when I'm not around ..."
     A shrug, and he turns his back on you, hands sliding against his hips, finding his pockets. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't rather be able to be there with you to lift it myself," Tiernan counters softly. "But I get lonely, too, Io. And you are the crown prince, and will be the high king. I ... have accustomed myself to knowing that there will be limits on our time. Even when ... should I say if? When or if announcements do eventually get made, that won't change. He was pretty, and he was interesting because of his story, his background. I made his pulse flutter, and that frightened him. Then you came in and that terrified him. So I took fifteen minutes to calm him down so that his future sex life - with or without me - doesn't need to be scarred by a bad experience, and then I came here. I didn't delay so that he could suck my knob, Io."
     He turns, looking down at the wine; a hand emerges from his coat's pocket, picks up the glass and he looks to you where you hum. White teeth scrape against his lower lip as he draws an inwards breath sharply, and he looks away again.
     "I like you a little jealous in the same way that I like seeing you flinch a little when I drag my teeth against your stomach. It doesn't mean I want to take huge bites out of your flesh, Io. It doesn't mean I want to see you bleed. I'm sorry for that. I'll go. You can ... tell me ..." Tiernan takes another quick, short breath; he is speaking aloud, refusing to intrude upon your internal landscape, right now. "If and when you want to see me again, I'm sure you can find me. I will try not to assume."

     "God damn it, will you just get in here? Jesus Christ, why is there always so much bleeding melodrama? This isn't Channel Four, we're not The goddamned Eastenders. I'm tired of shouting. And I can't possibly properly apologize to you when you're in there feeling sorry for yourself and I'm in here feeling sorry for myself. I'm not hurt, for god's sake..."
     Iowerth's position on his bed is unchanged, though his hummed song long ago faded in a stream of expletives. He releases a mighty breath. "Duw's balls, you'd think we were on the telly. I'm not saying I'm through with you, or that you should get the fuck out, Tiernan. If I didn't want to see you, I wouldn't have come to the privacy of my own ship for you to follow me now, would I? Or pour you expensive wine and even more expensive bourbon..."
     He lifts his head, his arm moving momentarily out of his line of vision to see if you're coming in as asked. "I know I have no ... right," he settles on that word after a moment, "... to feel jealous because you're spending time with some boy in the marketplace. I really have no right to ask you anything of the sort. I get it." While his gruff words remain, his tone has smoothened over the intervening moments. His energy... it still pitches... the sea, once tossed, takes more time to settle (and it is never completely still like the surface of shallower waters may be).
     With another sigh exhaled, he motions for you to come to him and to his bed, his one arm once more slung over his gaze while his other lies wide on the bed's surface, fingers crooking to you. "I'm sorry for overreacting. Can we please just stop being tragic? It's taking all the fun out of seeing you..."

     One corner of his mouth curves upwards reluctantly, and the wine's set aside as he moves to you. He settles a knee on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to look at you. "Excuse me for being considerate of my liege lord's feelings," Tiernan drawls. "Would you rather I suck your knob? We can go from high drama to bedroom comedy, if you like. Just - no hiding people in closets, yes? I don't think my nerves can take it."
     His weight settles, and he lies next to you, on his stomach, chin propped on his wrists. "I love you," he says simply. "There isn't anyone else I love in this world or any other. Like, yes. Am attracted to - well, I'm still a man, you know."

     "Maybe later." Right now, he's not in the mood -- or, rather, not in that mood. Other moods he has in surplus. When Iowerth feels your weight settling on the bed, he moves the arm that lies draped across his eyes and turns his head toward you. He is such a sight, covered in dragons with his periwinkle eyes and his flame-red hair.
     He stares at you in silence for many moments. He does not reach out to touch you, his body does not roll to you to sweep you in his arms. He just looks at you, studies you. His cupidic mouth forms the hint of a smirk, the ghost of a grin shimmering behind it. "Do you have time in your schedule for me tonight? I won't have meetings with Prospectives," wives, "...until the spring. It is lousy sailing season. I won't be making many trips. You won't have cause to miss me much, or to get lonely."
     And now he is in motion. It is like a sudden wave. You were there, sunning on your rock, and suddenly you find yourself in the arms of the sea, its liquid embrace at your mouth. You knew it was dangerous to wade your way over to him.
     But some dangers are better than others...

     "I have time for you."
     It's said so simply - like he says so many things; he says it, and lets it stand on its own. "If I'd known you were here ..." He could add to it, but instead, he chooses not to. Saying anything will just make it seem the less sincere, rather than more, and he realizes it. You are studying him, and he accepts your study - your scrutiny. Does not expect; tries not to expect. Tries to withstand hope.
     And then you are in motion, and he lets go of a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. It is given to you; blue eyes close as his arms close around you, Tiernan's mouth opening to your own. It is you I love ...

     "I know," Iowerth says aloud. His arms create a shelter around you as he settles his weight on you. His hands rest near your head. "I don't doubt that, Tiernan." In the flux and flow of your relationship, even when the relationship was expected to end, he did not doubt the nature of your heart. He never doubted that you loved him.
     Whether you could live with him was another question...
     "I'm not angry," he mentions. "I'm not upset. I was," he grins. "But ... I know where we stand. I just didn't like seeing you kissing someone else. I won't ask you about where you are when you're not with me. I don't want to know," Iowerth drawls, his mouth cutting a slanting smile. "I don't want to think about it."
     He is laughing now. It touches you in both audible and physical ways. "I would aim my cannons at any rivals." Bending, he kisses you, his mouth tugging loudly on the full flesh of your bottom lip. "You think I'm relentless when it comes to pirates? Just think what I'd do if you found some other captain," his eyes glint at that, "... in some other cabin. I would be called a merciless king if I slaughtered so many sailors."
     Something occurs to him. He pauses for a moment and then lifts an inquisitive brow. "When our relationship is out in the open, how shall you seek the company of another? Will they not fear to anger the king? So many enterprising young men will be seeking you out..." And he's not sure, quite suddenly, if he likes that idea.
     Dark swirling seas, the opening maw of the Charybdis opens at his gut, deep in his gut where the spirit of it lies. The periwinkle of his eyes flashes like colored lightning.

     He smiles slightly, eyes glinting at you as you speak of love, of his kisses, even as his mouth parts against yours. His hand goes to your hip, grasping you with a little squeeze before it draws away. "So no matter who I do or don't go with, I should at least do you the courtesy of making it not be men of the sea? Or is that the least of your concerns?"
     Tiernan chuckles, the sound contained, low in his throat as he rolls back on one side to look at you, his fingers trickling against your shirt. "Men and women will seek me, Io, the same as they do now. Whether I am known to be your lover instead of your friend or not, I still am someone close to you, whose voice you might hear. Someone who might have something to offer. And, I flatter myself that I am not unhandsome - some will not, because they fear the risk. Others will just find that more exciting." He shrugs a little, rolling one shoulder back as he draws his arm free of his coat. "Plus, if the high king likes it, how attractive is it then to those of lesser rank? It will probably elevate me to being like caviar, or rare and perfumed brandy."
     He's slightly amused by the comparison, but not thinking about it very deeply; he weaves his other arm out, then pushes the coat so that it falls to the floor as he looks to you. "There will always be people who want what you have," Tiernan says simply. "Whether you're prince or king, that won't change. How many men wish they could sleep with the high king's wife? You and your brother surely've known more gossip to that end than I do."

     "Though my family is rather more intertwined than most, I do try not to think of what other men are thinking about my mother. I try not to think about what my father wishes to do with my mother. I really don't want to know. It's bad enough my brother-uncle tends to talk about her anatomy like discussing the weather." His is an interesting family, to be sure. A mother who looks younger than he does. An older brother who is also an uncle. A twin brother who is both brother, nephew -- and more.
     He looks at you as you speak reason, exhaling in understanding, in comprehension immediate. He is no fool. You will be desired both for yourself and for himself -- for what others might want of him. Chuckling, Iowerth rolls his eyes at you. "Not unhandsome. I don't think that's modesty. You are quite handsome, as I know. You will have no shortage of offers."
     That's a thought to make himself crazy. Once he is working, likely such things will be divorced from his mind. But in the meantime? You see his eyes glint again, flickering lavender and blue. "I am not going to tell you who you may or may not see. I'm no tyrant," Iowerth drolls softly. "I merely do not wish to know about it. Aren't you happy that I don't want to know about your other trysts? Who you wish to ... spend time with outside of my person is your choice. Discretion, however, is something I will want from you. Dally all you want with the green-haired, winged boys of the marketplace... just not on the tables of the booths."
     Iowerth smirks, his lashes lowering as he looks up and down the length of your face. "What were you going to do with him there anyway, out in the open? Were you going to ... lure him to the tiny kitchen or have him right there on the table?"
     The waters of the whirlpool swirl and eddy in his gut. His emotions, his desires pitch and spiral, and in response his body settles its spread over you, his mouth parting at the side of your neck. "You will enjoy my being king more than I shall, I think," comes the rolling sound of his voice, a kind of smooth-toned growl. "All the treasures and the beauties of the kingdoms will be yours. They'll offer themselves up to you while I'll be in meetings and sessions of state..."

     "It's interesting - you, with your intertwined and complicated family, and me with no family at all. And yet, they say we are defined not by what we do alone but by our families and our blood." His fingers run through your hair gently, tugging a little. "So you are all things, or shall have to be, and I - am nothing?"
     He doesn't sound self-pitying; amused, maybe. Introspective. You look at him, and he meets your gaze. "Well, first of all, had I known you were in town, I wouldn't have been even that indiscreet," Tiernan murmurs, fingers trailing against your ear before his hand falls to the bed. "But no, I didn't intend to go much further than what you saw. I was wearing away his resistance to the idea of being with a man. It wasn't something he'd ever let himself think about before, I'm pretty certain - so a few kisses and a few touches," he shrugs, "and I would have made a date with him, for him to meet me somewhere else, and I would have left." But there was an interruption. Which does not mean that he has not necessarily made such an appointment, all the same...
     Tiernan closes his eyes as your mouth moves against his skin, his arm sliding up around your waist. "My tastes are unusual," he breathes out. "I'm not very interested in that which is offered on a plate. Bravery does more to compel me than any amount of mere artifice - someone with some sort of skill. Someone who can make something of himself, or someone who can take for himself what he wants in life. Whether," he smiles, eyes slanting open at you, "that is a boy in the marketplace, without family and with few friends, who's managed to carve a business out for himself with the one skill he knows he has, or whether that is a self-confident future king who sees something in me that he likes... I could go on, since something occurs to me, but I'm not sure you want to hear me go on."

     His head lifts, his expression openly examining. Something has occurred to you, and it has occurred to him that he wishes to know what, exactly, has come to your mind. Iowerth sits up, ending his self-torture (for that is what it is), and he remains on his knees, a knee on either side of your legs. It is just the first stage of a great rearrangement. Soon, he is adjusting the pillows and rolling over to half-recline and half-sit up, his back cushioned from the headboard and wall by the many feather-crammed pillows.
     Reaching over for his glass of bourbon, Iowerth turns his head, his gaze landing on no place in particular but rather taking the whole of you in for a moment. "Such as? And... the less you know about the inner workings of my family, the better. I'm going to have a map made just to walk through it myself. It's complicated," Iowerth murmurs, "... far more than it should be. It makes ...boundaries difficult to understand, even harder to negotiate. It is like sailing blind between great barrier reefs."
     Sipping at his bourbon, Iowerth looks down at his hands, at the liquid his joined grasp holds. "I think a man is so much more than his blood. The blood is the beginning, it is not the end. So," he exhales the fire of whiskey as he turns his attention to your sudden occurrence. "...go on. I want to hear it..."

     "Dabbling with my green-haired boy should be termed masturbation," Tiernan tells you with a wry tug at his mouth as he looks at you. His hand moves against your chest, down so that his palm can rest with fingers splayed apart against your belly. "Without family and with few friends. Managed to carve a place out with one skill he knows himself sure of. Yes, I can see why I would have some understanding of Otto. I'm not vain enough or deluded enough to say otherwise. My hair isn't green, of course, and I haven't got wings, but ..."
     Blue eyes move across you, and then away. I can understand his vulnerability, having shared it. It's a rheumatism of the soul, you know, of the spirit; when cold winds come, it is so easy to doubt oneself, to doubt the world in ague. But most of the time, it's easy to overcome. All it takes is accomplishing something worthwhile, the hard part being accepting credit that it is worthwhile.
     Tiernan rolls over, turning around to rest his head back against your thighs, closing his eyes with a faint smile. "I barely know your family," he murmurs. "In a way, I'm almost more surprised none of them have come and tried to kill me, you know."

     Cupidic lips twist with his amusement as his fingers move through your hair. "Will you be satisfied to know that they've spied on you? Would that make you feel better? My father reserves judgment, though it goes against his better nature. I have to hand it to him. Well, really, I should give the credit where it's due -- to mother." Iowerth finishes his bourbon with a swallow, setting his empty glass aside. Tilting his head, he looks to you, the faint amusement remaining on his features. "My family likes you. Were it not for my brother, in fact, my bullheadedness would likely have ended our relationship a while back. He... knows me better than I would like sometimes, but at least it's mutual. Do you want to know more about them?" He seems surprised by the notion.
     It's shock, actually...
     "I'm not going to judge you and whatever young men or women you choose to give your time to or take your pleasure from. It's none of my business." Iowerth's voice is soft and as the sun has fully set, the chamber darkens and darkens more. No lamps are lit to light the way. No beacons, just the dark sea of his bed.
     "I'm sorry you do not have a family to fall back on. You should have friends, I want you to. You should have someone other than me that you can trust to support you, to be there when you need them, need someone. No man is an island, yes? Not even if he chooses to live on one."

     He seems unsurprised by the notion. "I expected I would be spied upon. You are the crown prince, to be the high king - they'd be more or less remiss in their duties if they hadn't spied on me, tried to figure out what kind of person I am." Tiernan chuckles softly, sighing and lifting his hands to rub at his forehead. "I'm glad they like me. Why would I not want to know of them, Io? They are important to you. To some extent, they should be important to me, yes?"
     It seems so natural, to him. So simple. He says it, eyebrows rising and then settling again, his weight given to your lap. "I'm glad that your brother has defended my heart," Tiernan tells you lightly, "because honestly, I do want to be with you - and I would be desolate without you, Io. I'd manage, I'm sure. Hearts are said to be flexible and resilient things. But I don't want to find that out." He sits up, putting a hand on your shoulder and leaning in to touch his forehead to yours softly. "I'm trying to make friends. I've made some - a few. But I'm not the sort of personality that finds it easy - not much like your brother, I'm afraid. I'm reserved, and I hold myself in reserve for people who I find or feel I can trust with a little bit of myself. You're the only one who's had all of me. You've seen me at my worse."

     "You're more like him than you realize," Iowerth murmurs. "He doesn't make friends easily. In his aspect, he can't truly afford them. I am his friend," he notes. "He and I share the same skin. We are different selves, but inseparably bonded. But I am the only one he can afford to trust. His way is so much darker, so much more treacherous than my own. Beneath his noise, he is so quiet. The deafening noise of his voice is meant to be a distraction. But I should not say more. He would kill me to know I speak anything remotely seeming like a secret of his."
     "I love you," he says, leaning his forehead against yours. He kisses you gently, that gentleness that is reserved for you. "And my family... is your family if you wish it to be." Iowerth closes his eyes, his lips brushing your forehead. "My mother likes you a great deal. And my brother... is sympathetic. Even if he seems unknowable. Don't take it personally. It is just... how he is, how he must be to be who he is. My other brother is difficult to read, the Oak King," he clarifies. "But I know he looks favorably upon you. They want me to be happy. They know you have suffered. And they know you make me happy. So... they are content."
     Iowerth sits back, giving his body to the pillows. His eyes are given to you, their gaze direct, deep in their meaning, great in the volume of emotion they hold. "I am fortunate. I have two with whom I can trust with my very heart and soul. One is my twin, the other is you. And I am honored to be that for you. And ... even though I can be selfish, and you have seen the worst of me, god love you, and yet you stay with me sometimes for reasons I cannot fathom, I would not truly begrudge you having friends... having another you can trust. In my heart of hearts, I want make makes you happy. You should have others in your life, Tiernan. I could not ask you, and shall not ask you, to sacrifice that, to not have a full life or a full heart just because I want to be first in your heart, first in your mind, first in your arms."

     "I've talked to the Oak King," Tiernan allows. "He helped me, once." He smiles at you, glancing up as you lean back. "Don't tell me too many secrets. I am prepared to like your family, but people tend to get worked up when their secrets pass from them to someone else, secondhand - and of all things I don't want, it's to be a burden on your other friendships and relationships, Io."
     He rises, moving over you, his hands going to your hips and dredging up the material of your shirt so that his palms can settle against your skin. And then he leans forward to kiss you with intent, rolling his mouth against yours with a suckling grasp of lips and tongue.
     I like you a little jealous. Don't go all saint-like on me, either - just take out your jealousy by marking my skin with your mouth and fucking me senseless when we get to be together. You are still king of my heart, and I'd like to see the man who could even think about toppling you from that throne.

     "If I see him," Iowerth wryly remarks, his mouth moving against your own as he does, "I'm going to kill him. But I'll try not to slaughter everyone who looks at you." There is a thin, thin (razor thin) line between jealousy and out and out madness. It is a dangerous thing to stir up the waters of the ocean, to tickle Charybdis under its chin and coax it out in all its beautiful, powerful horror.
     But it can be a powerful additive to desire, if well-managed. You and he will learn, or you and he will suffer.
     For the kiss you gave to Otto, his teeth scrape your lips. The kiss is openly wanton, savage. Saints are slaughtered, martyred between you. All magnanimous gestures burned. All graciousness torn to pieces, drawn and quartered.
     Though any supposition of sainthood is decimated by that embrace, love lingers through it and is revealed in that passion-play -- in all its power, in all its depth. Iowerth rolls you on the bed, and in his embrace, in the siren-sweet kiss that claims you, it becomes a wide ocean. Bodies will crest and fall like waves. You will gasp for air and call his name for mercy before he's through.
     But such is the risk to playing with jealousy's power, stirring the cool depths of the sea until it catches fire...

Posted by rowan at October 13, 2006 12:44 PM