The grey has settled in over the coastline, and the docks and even the village streets are socked in with fog. Trading vessels still come and go. It's nearly impossible to stop Commerce; it takes on a life of its own. Ships hug the coastlines in the winter, going about the machinations of sailors for centuries despite the fact that the seasons of the Otherworld are simply arbitrary. They are only the dreams of seasons, the memories of weather that in the group thought and expectation of such become real.
It is certainly real enough to chill the bones. Frost and snow have covered Camelot and the Oak King's kingdom, and the Holly King's Perilous Forest is likewise dusted with white most innocent. But in the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree, the snow is still liquid, coming in the form of a most persistent mist. It is why the trees are forever flowering, no? Unlike her two most neighboring kingdoms, Fiona's retains an element of green, and winter flowers fill the fields with dusty purples and blues. Periwinkles spring up and succulent violets, nightshades and bat-wings bloom. The ever flowering kingdom, indeed.
It is known (it has progressed far beyond rumors at this stage) that the Crown Prince has taken to stay in his apartments. His winter days, though colder, are certainly no slower. Where once he met with prospective queens, now he meets with prospective staff. His royal steward, his chamberlain, his generals, his poets and even knights come in and out throughout the morning. By the spring, so the rumors go, he will be king, soon after to have selected a bride, and his islands, already the source of much interest, shall be the subject of many conversations.
He is not reading. That in and of itself is nothing short of astounding. Nor is he working, or looking over maps. He is, as it happens, tending to the fire in his great room's hearth, renewing the embers and fire, adding another few branches of birch and pine, and tossing on a bit of incense for fragrance. Iowerth Rhudd Draig is clearing his mind, so crammed with figures and planning from this day's meetings (not to mention all those that came before it, and those that shall follow tomorrow).
Despite the presence of the rather large fire, he is dressed in layers of leather and wool. The leather pants are a cobalt blue. The sweater that lies over it is darker, richer though not quite to navy. It is a modern look but one that does not seem so odd in a place that is in a permanent state of Fancy Dress.
He appears, not in a puff of smoke or blaze of light, but simply, almost by degrees; like watching a Polaroid develop, only a little faster. An outline, with details filling in bit by bit. He is dressed less complicatedly than usual. A white t-shirt, black jeans, black boots - the only colour the brilliance of his hair and eyes.
"You look cold, brawd. But is it an inner or outer cold? Do you just miss the sea that much?"
Gwilym grins, a quick, brief grin that sparkles before it fades, and he steps away from the shadows cast against the wall by the dancing firelight. "Am I interrupting?"
He smiles as you do, and it fades even as yours fades. "Not at all. I was hoping to see you. I knew my afternoon was becoming too quiet," his mouth cuts a slight slant. You were bound to turn up. Putting the hearth's poker back in its stand, Iowerth turns to you. "It is an outer cold," he assures. "Winter is a season for contemplation."
Iowerth moves to you. Though it is most certainly winter, and though he may be contemplative, his hug is warm, with a brother's grip. "I've missed you. How are you? You're rather Jack-be-Nimble, Jack-be-Quick," he murmurs. You are here and then you are gone. And I am always trying to catch up to you. As it has always been.
He gestures for you to take a seat on the sofa or one of the comfortable chairs near the fire. "I have mulled wine and mead from Camelot. A gift from Arthur's court. Drustan Cunomorus will be joining me in my kingdom as one of my generals. I think he's doing it mainly for the wagering on chariot races, but I was ecstatic to receive his oath and service nonetheless. Would you like something to eat?"
The hug is returned firmly, but he pulls away slowly at the end. Slipping away, as he always does. He cannot help it. He fades at the edges, a shadow among shadows, no matter how solid he is. "I am," Gwilym says simply. "But for now, I am here, oes? And I am glad to see you."
He sprawls onto the sofa, thumping against the back and letting his head fall back, eyes closed. unmarked arms spread along its back, and then he lies down, head resting on the arm as he turns his face to regard you. "No, but thanks, I'm not hungry." Shocking, isn't it. "He bringing his father's wife?" Riot. One corner of his mouth goes up in a quirked grin. "I can say that to you, oes, even if not to him? Well, I'm glad for you. I know you will make a roaring success of it, Io. I'm happy for you."
His voice is sincere; without guile. There is no jealousy, no rancor in Gwilym's expression, in his voice. "I've done that bit of work in London. Might have to go back, more to do, but for the last couple of weeks I've been minding my own borders, mending my own fences. Shadowy things. I found a glade - I don't know where it is, or how to get there except by shadows, but it was the prettiest thing, brawd. With these girls with long dark hair, bare to the waist, singing as they picked palm leaves. Ah, I'm running on. So how's it been going, in my absence? The world hasn't ended, oes?"
He hesitates on the matter of the girls with long dark hair running around topless among palm fronds. You can see him pausing on the thought and upon the curiosity of where that place might be. But he pours a mug of the warm mulled wine for himself. You are welcome to it. He sits adjacent to you, held by the wide body of an overstuffed chair. "Things that were not as they could or perhaps should have been in one Time can be mended in another," he speaks of Drustan there most likely. "And as he is in his heaven, yes, she is coming with him, but is no longer his father's wife."
Iowerth sips at the mulled wine. Half the joy of drinking it is actually holding it and allowing the warmth to radiate against his exterior even as sipping it radiates warmth internally. "Diolch," he murmurs, his gaze fixing on you. You, a slippery, shadowy thing. He, a watery, emotional whirlpool. His mouth twitches at the thought. "Did the girls over-feed you? Sounds like a lovely glade. Remind me to ask you to take me there for my stag party."
"I'm glad you're well. You seem quiet... but you are the face and voice of the secrets you do not speak." Iowerth's mouth spreads in an understanding curve. "In your absence, things progress but not half so well entertained. Your measures are in place around the island. I will be moving there in the spring permanently. Father is talking of a coronation. His business is calling him more and more. It is swiftly becoming a necessity to crown me sooner rather than later. I have been busy, as usual. Early morning consultations, mid-morning planning, early afternoon staff meetings and late afternoon contemplation upon all that has come before. It is starting to take on a rhythm." He winks at you, the color of his eyes sparkling, as he takes another swallow of the mulled wine.
"You are not hungry," he mulls out after a time. "Are you not feeling well?" The light tone returns, dry and droll as ever. "Nothing even to drink? Ah, it is all just a ploy, I fear. To get you to stay longer. It's not the same without you. I need your voice in the background to tell me I'm full of shite. I miss the banter, to be honest."
"I am quiet. I've grown tired of being Mercutio, my lord; look how well it ended for him." He smiles, a lopsided twitch of his mouth as he looks to you. "I do not know to whence all my energy's fled, brawd. I am just - tired. Melancholy. More Danish than the Dane, and less great. My bark's gone, as has my bite."
Gwilym sits up, reaching for your hand. He squeezes it lightly, then releases it, gaze meeting yours. "Do you ever wonder if you're going mad, Io? I do, sometimes. When things are going well, it's grand, but somewhat hollow inside. That is what I feel; hollow, as if someone's taken a melon-baller to under my skin, scooped me away and left me leaden-spirited and stuffed with naught but airy nothing. I don't know what I'm missing. It isn't because of London; it just comes and goes."
He leans back, closing his eyes and grabbing a cushion, planting it firmly over his face. From behind the pillow, his mouth moves, muffled. "I'll be coming round more, I promise. Just not too much, oes? Wouldn't want you getting sick of me. Or to intrude upon the rest of your life. But I was thinking, when spring comes, I might go with you to your new territories. If you can find a corner for me on one of your ships, I mean. If not, I'll flap along some way."
"I would love for you to stay a while with me," he admits it softly as he squeezes your hand in return. "And you can ride on the royal ship with me. You are my brother, after all. It would seem odd if you were not there. At least it would to me." He smiles a little but he is thinking of your words, of your emptiness. "I cannot help you fill it, I know," Iowerth murmurs. "Do you think it is the nature of your power to seem empty even when you are full? I know I suffer for my own. The oceans will not let me be. Sometimes, I am too emotional. I am going to have to work on that or I will be a very poor king. Perhaps you are too full of shadows, brawd. What would happen if you were to dwell in the sun for a spring, to do the opposite of your power?"
Maybe then you would go mad, as perhaps I shall being on dry land surrounded by water. "I do wonder if I am mad at times," Iowerth posits, "...when I am not controlling the whirlpool, my emotional core, I feel this way. Stormy, where you are empty. Irrational, where you are hollow." He looks into his cup and then takes a swallow from the warm, spiced wine. "You are as you are, made of the molecules and atoms that drive you to those shadows. But when you stay with me, do the opposite of hide. Revel in your solidity, swim in sunlight. That is what I recommend." Iowerth quirks suddenly, grinning at himself. "But you didn't ask for a solution, oes? Or my advice."
Draining his cup with a sigh, Iowerth rises. He places a hand on your shoulder, then on the pillow that you hold over your head. He pats you as he moves past you to pour another cup.
"I do not want to be a burden, on you or on your other relationships. I know you have much to balance, Io. I would rather not be another thing in your life, something to be kept track of, another number in a column." His mouth twitches, sensitive lips expressive as always. "But I have missed you."
You pass by him, and he sets the cup aside, eyes closed as he inhales, exhales, inhales again. I do not want to use you too much as a tether, brawd. I seem to be a bit of a masochist as it is.
He rises to his feet, crossing to the wall and resting both palms against it - as if you're going to frisk him, or he's going to do some sort of standing push-up. "So how's it going with Tiernan?" Gwilym asks finally. "Seen mum lately, for that matter? And da and papa? How are things..."
"You could never be a burden to me," Iowerth remarks easily, pouring the mug to a healthy level. "But I understand you are cagey when held too long. I have learned to let you go when you start twitching. So," he smiles at you with a look, "... I will not ask you to stay past when you wish to stay. And I will miss you when you are gone."
Tethers and anchors. Used as they are to be used, they can be a savior. Used too much, they can become imprisoning. I know. And... I share your concern. I have to be able to lead sensibly when you are not around to guide me, oes? I cannot focus upon one star only to the expense of the journey. No matter how much it comforts me to do so.
Iowerth is crossing back to the chair, sitting and relaxing as you begin pressing against the wall. "Tiernan and I are fine," he murmurs. "We fight, we make up, we fight again. It is how we are. The sea and the shore," he sighs. "I am learning not to take these things so seriously. It is just the rhythm of the relationship. I caught him with someone the other day." He smirks at it now, but it was upsetting at the time. "And can you believe my audacity in being upset? I was unjustifiably livid. But I got over it." It took Tiernan another day to recover. If you were to see the smile at the rim of his wine cup, you'd know the reason why.
But then, you have been at the mercy of the ocean. You know full well what it's like to drown as you are crushed by the waves of the sea...
"I have seen her. She looks good. She and Peter are doing well. I was with her, your da and papa the other night. I don't know when now, not that long ago. They were talking about her nipples over the dinner table. They have no compunction about saying such things. But they seem well. Your da seems tired. Mum's tired of nursing." He makes a wave. Be glad you missed it.
"I am a twitchy, nervy creature. Not much fun to keep around," Gwilym's lips twitch again, and he straightens, turning from the wall to look at you. "But I'll try, Io. It isn't you asking me to stay. If you want me, need me, you know I will be there, oes? But - you have your linchpin - your anchor. You have what steadies you, oes?"
He returns to your sphere, leaning forward against the back of the sofa. "Really." He quirks up his eyebrows. "With someone else? And you caught him, and he's still alive?" He's teasing, but only half. "It is strange. I ... no, never mind that. A stray thought." He dismisses it, then leans further forward, rolling with easy agility to lie down on the sofa again, folding his hands on his chest.
"I'll pay them a visit sometime soon." Gwilym waves a hand airily, returning it to his chest. "They have their own lives, separate from ours by so much - maybe I should look into getting married, too." He laughs softly. "What do you think? Would I wear a groom's suit with easy grace?"
"You might surprise yourself. You may wear it better than you think. Perhaps even better than I." He sips at the wine, looking into his glass after he speaks. Periwinkle eyes lift to you and he grins. He clucks his tongue in his mouth, thought given sound if not voice. "Hmm, oes, he's still alive as is the young man with whom he was ... spending a stray moment. But I can't promise him monogamy. Why should he be made to carry that yoke alone? I will get used to it, though I expect I'll never like it."
Iowerth quirks at your stray thought. You see the curiosity, the interest there. But he does not push you to reveal it. You never mind it, and he does too. "I am fortunate," he continues, "...to have you and Tiernan and a family that loves me. Tiernan and I spoke just the other night about this. How he has no family. Without me, he truly is alone. You and I may make fun of our family, but we are very lucky to have the one we do. I know they would love to see you. I know that I do. Everyone waits until the air is electric from hoping you appear, and they speak your name in the hope, however vain, that they can conjure you."
He speaks from personal experience, but no doubt the sentiment is shared. Iowerth settles back, holding the still warm mug upon his stomach. "You're twitchy, nervy with emotions. But you have a steady hand, even when your mind is perturbed. No matter whatever turmoil you may be feeling, it does not show to the casual eye." He isn't fooled. But then neither are you about anything he does.
"I might, but - no. I don't think I'll be traipsing down the aisle any time soon," your brother drawls. "I can't bear to be bound by a woman. Strange, isn't it?" His smile quirks in your direction, a slow, elongated, knowing look. "I can't submit that much of myself. Women don't hunt properly. They don't strike to the heart. I need a fatal, killing blow, to give up any parts of myself, whether in dribs and drabs or great whacking, bleeding chunks. Women like poison better."
Gwilym climbs again to his feet, not able to hold himself still for long, right now. "You're all a lot of deluded fools, you know," he says without rancor. "You shouldn't waste your time or hopes on conjuring me. There are better things to look for; better things to hope for, you know. I'm not horrible, but - not that important, in the grand scheme of things."
He is not being falsely modest. He looks to you with tufted eyebrows raised, then scrubs his hands over his face. "Ah, well. It'll be a long winter, won't it. We'll learn to make do. I'll try not to be too much underfoot that my personality begins to grate. The real secret behind prolonged absences - there really can be too much of a good thing, otherwise."
You speak of poison, and he levels a humored look at you, chuckling quiet concordance. "You will do as you want, as always. I will neither suggest you do or do not on that topic." Iowerth pauses to upraise an eyebrow, "...or any topic. And you are no less important than the rest of us," your brother suddenly quips. "Don't go thinking you're the only minimus around."
He is your opposite, as he is your other self in all things. You stand, he sits. You are energy, he is stillness. You are sound and fury, he is silence. "Says you, and speak for yourself," he quietly counters. "Absence does not make the heart grow fonder. But... I won't try to stop you. It'd only make you unbearable," he drolls. That smooth, soft tone, bone dry, returns in its normal fashion, as it has since the two were boys.
"So what's been keeping you, this work in London? You've made a truce with the material plane? I should have thought you'd not go back after our last visit. You, your da, papa. The city seems to call you all."
He is different in that. Though he has a great interest in the material realm and the histories that are dreamt first Here, it is not what calls him now. His energy has already turned, his eyes and his mind preoccupied with the realms of dreams and the frontiers of fantasy.
"Are you still seeing your general? I have not heard you speak of him for a while. He is quite adept at the killing blow. Most paladins are."
"Oh, you can always suggest. Who says I'd listen, though?" Gwilym rolls his eyes at you, but it is a good-natured gesture. He is devoid of malice, of anger, of hatred, even if he is less empty than he was when he first arrived. "I never listen. Even when I should."
He sits on the floor, cross-legged with his hair in wild disarray. He scowls thoughtfully into the middle distance, as if listening to something he isn't quite sure of. "...I didn't go to the city because it calls me. I went because I needed to find some information. I went to where the little wizards all go - they are so innocent," one corner of his mouth tugs up reluctantly, "they remind me of your boy, Io. Whether they love or hate, there is something of simplicity to them. They have held themselves away from the rest of the world so much - they haven't grown up with it. But that didn't stop them from thinking me someone who might be trouble to them," he adds with a sudden, wry twist to his mouth. "I had to spend some time being chased. They thought I was up to no good."
He leans back, folding his arms under his head and looking at the ceiling. "It may have been London which woke this craziness in me, Io, I don't know - but it travels with me. I can't blame it on the city. It's something in me which I lack - grounding, or morality, or whatever it is. It rolls right over me and drags me with it when it chooses. I do my best to be in charge of it, but - it ties to me, in some way I don't understand, I don't fathom. All I can do is try to run on ahead of it. And hope, of course, it doesn't kill me in the end."
He looks at your ceiling, watching the flickering shadows cast by firelight. He lifts a hand, lazily tracing his fingers on the air, creating a puppet show of shadows. "He is patient where even I think the earth would give up," Gwilym says softly. "Seeing him? Yes; I see him. And he sees me. I think he sees more of me than I do."
"Simple," he murmurs, "...and apparently smart as well." Iowerth smirks a bit, his expression openly curious. What are you up to? You won't say. If I ask, it will sound too much like interrogation. Iowerth lifts his cup of mulled wine, sipping at the spiced warmth of it. It is losing some of its heat in all this conversation. He drains it suddenly and sets the cup aside.
"You speak of it as if it were an entity out to get you. Do you run from the universe or from yourself?" His fingers steeple where they interlace at his stomach, his legs lengthening, stretching outward. The warm blanket of the wine has made him relax. He seems less distant than when you first entered -- less inwardly staring. Iowerth tilts his head, looking at you. It is an unwavering stare. It absorbs you where you sit.
"What does it make you do... or want to do," he wonders quietly. "You seem ... energized from just sitting here with me. I'm no egotist to think I'm the reason. But... if you tell me, maybe I can help... or I can at least listen..."
There is no jealousy for the General. He seems mildly relieved that you've kept him around. "He is far older than my father, your papa. I hear patience comes with only great practice. He's had a long time at it, Gwilym. And you are... habitually self-demeaning. I no longer pay attention to it. Or rather, I do, but I know what the truth is. You're not half so empty, not half so despairing as you believe yourself to be. You always were prone to exaggeration."
"Six of one, half a dozen of the other." He waves a hand, and the shadows weave it into the intricate country dance of lords and ladies that is silhouetted by his power. "I am large; I contain multitudes. If it's me or if it's the universe, what difference does it make? Either way, it's me that runs me ragged. I'm chasing my tail, still. Don't you recognize Br'er Fox when you see him?"
Gwilym looks to you, green eyes glinting, and there is something of a tail-wag in the way he cocks his head, arranges himself quite unselfconsciously upon your floor. He relaxes back again, and with an airy wave of his hand, the shadows are dispelled back to being just shadows; no lords, no ladies, no fancy dress, no ballroom moves.
"I run. And I look for the eyes that will penetrate all disguise to the point where I cannot run. It isn't clear, Io. Nothing ever is. It is hinted at. Glimpsed. Intrigue and mystery. I compel shadows; but not half so much as they compel me. I suppose that I will go on looking in dark alleys until I find my fate or I escape it," Gwilym says slowly. "And I don't know, honestly, if I'm looking for it or hiding from it. It is just this foreboding, anticipatory sense. The scent of the hounds and the horses, maybe. The hunt can't be far away."
He turns his head, looking over his shoulder for a moment and then looking back at you. "Why do you think you aren't the reason?" Gwilym cocks his eyebrows up in apparent puzzlement. "Don't you know your own place in my life, Io? If I exaggerate, then pull your sword and strike me down, so help me by our fathers and mother." He lifts a hand as if to make oath. "Don't you know that you are a fixed point upon my map, and one of the only ones I've got - if not the only? To you, I'm the fixed star that the sea looks to. But for me, you are the fixed point which I call home."
His eyes sparkle with his understanding. Tilting his head, he looks at you. "No, the hunt is not far," Iowerth murmurs. "You are It. You seek and you are sought." Yes, that is you. I am reminded whenever I see you. You are my brother, my other self, but you are also shadow and mystery incarnate. And I ask you to define yourself? "I'm sorry," Iowerth says, "I just caught myself in a moment of stupidity. I forget you're the Mystery as much as you are the Man."
Iowerth is quiet for many moments. At the end of that time, he does not speak but his motion conveys in volumes what words would fail to express. He crouches beside you, where you hold court over his floor. "I do know better," he murmurs. He does know that he is the solid earth for you, as you are the burning star for him. He places a touch to your hair, stilling some of its wildness.
"You have not been given the easy task in this life, no quick way out. There is no moment when you do not have to be completely vigilant. Except when you are with me. I am here, as solid as the sea can be. Why do you not stay a while longer... fill yourself up. I know you cannot always be near -- one has to leave home in order to work, I know -- but I think you punish yourself. I think you push yourself too far, too hard."
Iowerth's hand draws away as he softly grins. "Pot, kettle, black... I know. I know my place, I did not mean to send you doubting. I ...just didn't want to take all the credit. I'm trying to be magnanimous," he teases. "I love you, brawd. And you are welcome home any time you like... as long as you like."
You are the only one who sees me as what I am.
He scrubs at his face again, as if suddenly weary. "Others may - I don't know. Maybe I do them disservice. I don't know things. I sense them. I intuit. This is why I could never be High King. Your position has to be one of unassailable Knowledge, while I - cannot ever be that!" Gwilym laughs sharply, features creasing into an almost amiable grin. But his eyes are watchful and tired all at once.
"Haven't I said already that I will stay? A while. I don't know how long. It's strange; I spent a week being pampered by brown-skinned maidens, and it did nothing for me. I don't even feel rested." He groans, an impatient whine of quiet self-complaint, and his hand seeks your wrist with darting movement, to keep you from drawing away.
"Be magnanimous to yourself," Gwilym suggests. "I know it's hard. You drive yourself as hard as I do. I love you, too," he smiles, "but who can understand us as easily and as completely as we? I need you to turn the key in the lock as much as you need me to go on burning brightly. But," and he releases your wrist, withdrawing his hand slowly, "I may be unfair to your heart. I don't know."
"I will try," Iowerth speaks quietly. "I admit it is not a skill I have cultivated." He pats you on the shoulder, a last touch made upon your head and then he rises. It is a moment more before he moves. When he does, it is slow and with a look behind to you as he crosses over to the mulled wine and pours himself another cup. He pours one also for you and he brings it with him as he returns to sit beside you, both of you boys on the floor.
It is still you and me and the rest of the world. Iowerth holds the cup out to you. "How could you be unfair to my heart, Gwi? Apart from not taking me to your island of brown-skinned maidens," he chuckles suddenly. He doesn't mean it. While women are nice distractions, it is not what he first and foremost desires.
"I hope you will find my islands relaxing," Iowerth says, sipping at the wine in his cup. It is sweet and spiced -- cinnamon and clove and nutmeg there. "The General and I see you. Or at least I believe you have told me he sees you. But... you and I... we are beyond casual friends. We shared the same blood, the same air, the same womb. We are different aspects of the same energy. And what we do not understand, we seek to know."
"No. Even less so than me." Shrewd the gaze that follows you at your rising. "I at least can allow myself my mortal comforts and indulgences and my wildness. And I do. Brown-skinned maidens, or ... less socially acceptable vices ..."
There is a flicker behind the green eyes that hints at darkness. The darkness is dispelled by his sudden smile, and he rises up on his haunches to accept the cup from your hands. "Unfair to your heart. We can't help it, I think. We compare ourselves to others, oes? And others to ourselves, and to each other. I know how you love your boy. More, I think, even than you do, or he does." He sips, then swallows wine, rolling it over his tongue to sample the texture, the flavour, the distinct and separate spices. "...It is my flaw to see too much of what others do. The spy, the thief, the rogue."
He smiles halfway, sideways, and then looks glancingly at you. "Oes, we are. Two sides of one coin, oes? Da understands me better than I do, I suspect. I don't know. It's one of those things we don't talk about. You know me better than I know myself, I suspect. It's only when I'm talking to you that I can see myself clearly. When I talk to my General," Gwilym smiles again, the sharp, fox-like smile, "I see myself ... in different roles. Different guises. He calls something up in my blood. But that isn't the same as what happens with you, no. I am perhaps too fascinated with myself, but I never pretended to modesty."
Iowerth chuckles at the rim of his cup, the sound held in his throat and in his gut as he swallows. "I do not indulge, have not, but only very occasionally. I tend to bury myself in books, when I was exploring there was no end to the need, even the lust, for discovery." He looks to you, cocking up an eyebrow. "Do you think it is in rebellion to my father's overindulgence on everything?" His lips twist wryly. "I shall have to address this. I do not want to become a monk. There must be a happy medium."
Leaning back and giving his body's weight to the sofa, Iowerth draws his knees up, his arms surrounding them loosely. "I am glad you have him," your brother murmurs. "He is exceedingly bright. Ah, and I've never heard love so defined as vanity," he is laughing softly, tipping his head back for another long swallow of the heated, spiced wine. His face is reddening with inebriation, and the periwinkle eyes are becoming too bright, like lightning -- as they do when he becomes intoxicated or drugged.
"I do love Tiernan, as much as we argue it seems. It isn't easy. It is not like with you, you are my brother. I know that if we fight, we will not fight for long. But with him, when we fight it seems so ... cataclysmic. He is so calm, and I only seem calm. No matter how still the sea may seem, beneath the surface it is in constant agitation. I do not think it will ever be easy. When we were young," he is confiding in you, his voice lowers and he leans in, "... we would slip away. We could sun ourselves on hidden beaches, swim naked. We were boys, and it was easy and carefree. We never argued. But now that we have become men, men with cares and concerns and responsibilities, I find we fight far more frequently."
"Well, what is love if not vanity?" Gwilym says reasonably. "It is the pleasurable discovery of realizing that someone else holds at least as high an opinion of one as does one's own self." He grins. I am full of shite. "Don't be a monk," he murmurs. "I like you when you give way to your hidden desires, Io. Even if it's because of how I benefit by it."
He rolls onto his side, towards you, looking up at you. "He is finding his identity. It's going to be painful for both of you, I think," he comments, not quite carelessly. "Because ... it's hard. You've always put him on a pedestal, Io. And he keeps insisting on climbing down. I don't think he even realizes you've done it, you know. His mind seems not to work that way. He is, and I confess this to me is almost alien - not out for what he can get. At all. I think you'll arrive at a plateau eventually, but he's trying to be your equal, and that's not going to be easy for either of you, arriving there."
His glass is lifted to his lips, and he swallows, sighing. "So you're saying that the honeymoon's over and you're fighting more when you try to get right down to work? Shocking, brawd! Shocking." He grins at you again, eyes alight with mirth and mischief, inviting you to laugh as well. "I wish I cared half as much for anyone," Gwilym adds suddenly, "as you two do for each other."
He rolls his eyes now, laughing along with you. It is better to laugh with than be laughed at, certainly. And he does without even your goading. "Don't you care for me?" he chuckles out. As if to say: fine -- be that way about it then. But he's not serious, as his look will tell you. Not about that at any rate. Iowerth takes a breath, holds it as he swallows the wine, the last of his third (really, fourth) cup. He exhales spices, his gaze drifting to you.
"You insist on climbing down, too," he murmurs. "But with you, I let you go where you will. I guess I want him to be up there. It's not fair to him. I am trying," his intoxicated tongue begins to loosen, even as it begins to lilt and drag with a drunken gait. "I am trying to let him be...whatever, whoever he's going to be. I just ... don't want him going too far. You either. I don't like it," he whispers. "I don't like it when I cannot see you, know that you are okay. Him too. That is the king energy, oes? Trying to control things. I don't run this," he chuckles suddenly.
Iowerth looks into his now empty cup. He glances up to where the wine is held -- it's now too far to go. "I will trust that you are right, Gwi." Iowerth looks to you. "You see it better than I. I am too close to it to see it rightly." His reddening complexion deepens suddenly. "I do not know that my desires are all that hidden. I simply do not take the time to express them. I have just been... up to my neck, brawd, up to my neck in princesses and plans." Iowerth shakes his head, closing his eyes. "I need to revel in my energy... again. I have been very closed..."
"I could be wrong. I flatter myself that I'm not." Gwilym grins at you, but with sympathy alight in his eyes now. He reaches out a hand to you, then lets it fall. "You can't run everything," he murmurs. "There will always be things out of your control. Stop seeing him as a potential enemy, if you can, because of his resistance. I don't believe he means your heart any harm, oes? But - maybe I should talk to him myself. Reacquaint, and all."
He sets his cup aside, rolling over to sit up on his knees as he leans towards you, his hand going to your shoulder. "I love you, brawd," he says quietly. "We're so different and so alike, all at once. Don't infect yourself with my craziness. It's not worth it, oes?"
He smiles, then darts back again, laughing quietly; sound held in the back of his throat. Up to your neck in princesses and plans. Which is prettier, the princesses or the plans?
"So far?" Iowerth drolls, "...the plans. It's not even a close race. I'm ready for the whole thing to be over, to be honest." His legs lower and spread out. His empty cup set aside, his arms now cross behind his head, his fingers interlacing at the nape of his neck.
"I do not know if it is because of his resistance, or my stubbornness. I'm going to place odds on my stubbornness." Rolling his eyes at himself he looks to you, giving you a leaning nudge. "But it would be good if you spoke with him. I think he would like it if the two of you spoke. I think he has felt accepted by my family but not yet a part of it. And ... I want the two that I care most about in the world... I want them not to be at odds," Iowerth quietly admits. It is a confession of a kind.
He is quiet for a time and then he looks to you once more. "I think you were right. I think I am melancholy. I am going to change my schedule tomorrow," the future king declares, "...I have been burning the lamps and the candles on every end imaginable. I am going to make time to be carefree," he laughs at that, his mouth spreading into a quick grin, "... until I become carefree naturally. I am going to indulge, until I get my balance back, oes?"
His arms uncrossing, Iowerth begins to stand. It will take a few moments. He uses you for balance, his hand gripping your shoulder, his weight pressing down as he struggles to get that big, drunken body up. As he stands, he sighs, stretching and strolling back to the sofa. It squeaks and groans with his sudden weight. You can sympathize.
"I can't choke you, choke myself, choke him, or the kingdoms and courts," he murmurs, his eyes closing. "I cannot in my zeal grasp everything so tightly. I will crush the things I love if I do. Diolch... Gwi... with you, I remember these things. When you are not here... it is so easy for me to lose my way, my star."
"I will talk with him while I'm here, then, and see what happens. I promise not to seduce him and inflame your temper further," Gwilym drolls out, grinning at you sidelong. He watches you as you work on rising to your feet. "Change your schedule, oes. You ... work too much to a timetable, I work ... not enough to one. But the sea and tide are always tabled, oes? And how can the shadows be anything but untabled?"
Gwilym waits until you are on your feet, then follows you to the sofa, sitting on it, curving his body easily to yours. "Grasp me as tightly as you need while I am here," he whispers, patting your hip with thieving fingers. "I promise not to steal the keys to your kingdom. But if I am here to find succor, find your own, oes? But for now..."
He rolls back with a low chuckle, sliding to the floor and beginning to undo your boots. For now, I will valet you. You need your rest, o mighty king, if you are to take on the world. Tonight, you can sleep knowing your brother is not very far. Close enough, in fact, for you to see him, rather than feeling his eyes from a distance.
"Sleep tonight," your brother suggests, voice low, half a jest and half a caress, "as a prince, instead of a king. We can't ever go back to childhood, but we can revisit it, oes? It need not be a forgotten kingdom." He picks up your feet, dragging them up as if to put you to bed on the sofa. His lips brush to your forehead.
Our life is as in dreams, Io. Let your dreams be of the life you want.
Posted by rowan at October 16, 2006 02:57 PM
