The sun is just touching the eastern sky when I leave Tours, faint spreading clouds tinted with that delicate pink which fashion designers wish they could dip their paintbrushes into. Instead, they must settle for dull imitations and sell them to their clients as the real thing; I, on the other hand, have no such dilemma, clad in black as I am. Today, I am the Black Prince that I have never formally been called but always have been; the rogue, the fighter, the rapscallion who nonetheless answers when called upon in times of need. That, I realize, is my role in our world; the archetype into which I fit for now.
     Just as you, my brother, are the crown prince, he who is born to be King of All He Surveys. The leader of men, the fighter who carries the battle to the enemy, upholding whatever standards of nobility you have chosen - that is who you are.
     I do not love you for it any less, and I suppose that you do not love me any less for who and what I am. People who look at us from the outside likely wonder why or how we get along, but we - we know, don't we, brawd? You and I, we know. We are the twins, the opposing sides of the single coin, just as our fathers were before us and are and ever will be. Our mother is in us always, and so we do not need her external to us, to keep the peace and make things balance. The only thumbs upon the scales are ours, ours and Fate's.
     I slide into your palace, waiting a moment before moving to catch up to myself, to gain equilibrium and a sense for where you are. Where are you, brawd? Tangled in the arms of your lover? Or are you somewhere else? I will have to find you.
     Gwilym smiles a little to himself, thoughts rattling in his head like so many marbles as silent footsteps make their way through thin shadows. He appears fully clad in black, with sword slung from his hip, hair rakish, curling from damp dew-drops. He doesn't care who sees him, now. He is here, and he intends to find you.
     Brawd, call off your guards... I'm here to pay you a visit. Alone, if that's possible. I will throw out a window anyone who protests.

     The crown prince's head lifts up from a conversation. A moment's distraction is apologized for, and orders are given easily, quietly, but the prince is on the move. He has many he must see in a day now as the Kingdom of the Crescent Moon experiences its first growth spurt (and growing pains). The ships have been arriving in a steady stream since the end of winter. Notices were sent to all the kingdoms, carried by the four winds as far-flung as the outer Marches. The guard has doubled in size with fresh recruits. Hippolytus, the grand marshal of the forces, has created his general corps, and the rest of the ranks are fleshing out. The markets are crowded, merchants taking their places, their booths, preparing their wares. It has all the hubbub of an opera's overture as the performers mill about and get into place for the first aria.
     If it isn't Gwilym Gwyn Garu. You would be late to your own funeral. Was it not you who said you would be here two weeks ago? Oh, that's right. I forget. You can't tell time. His droll tone could cross the Ages, let alone the palace. I am in the observation atrium, looking over markets. They look like little ants from way up here.
     The observation atrium is an open air courtyard at the very summit of the basilica's grounds, on the cliffs and plateau of the major island. Its columns seem to hold up the sky. During the day, they are the pillars of the sun; at night, that of the moon and stars. It offers the best vantage in the kingdom, a view that would be envied by any and all.
     He always did fancy being on top...
     And lo, there he stands. Dressed in the signature midnight blues. The pants are stag suede, and the tunic is a rich velvet, its jeweled closures undone to reveal... more to celebrate... the midnight blue seadragons, waves and stars that cover his torso. He keeps his hair shortish, but not as short as his father's. There is enough hair there that the waves give it body, holding the mussed modern style with ease. And his eyes seem all the more fiery for all that dark blue he wears. The contract that also makes his eyes stand out, pure periwinkle.
     I am alone. Tiernan's down by the docks. His ships have come in today, loaded forbear. So, do. Join me for a drink. I'm glad you're here.

     You will forgive me. That is why I sin, oes? So that you may have the pleasure of being in the right, of forgiving me my trespasses. Your brother's voice slides against you, inside you slyly as he makes his way through hallways and corridors towards you, orienting on the sound of your hidden voice. Shall I pilfer from your stores, so that you will forgive me for more?
     Gwilym grins a little, to himself; he steps through shadow and reappears closer to you, suddenly impatient with the back-and-forth, coming out near you, from behind, so that his voice sounds very close when he speaks again, this time aloud.
     "You're looking good. Looking like you're getting laid regularly. That's good." Gwilym grins as he steps out of shadow entirely, moving towards you in his black on black sartorial elegance, his hair allowed to show. "So have I been missed at all? I imagine not very, in all this clamor and commotion. Another reason to stay away - so that I can be missed."

     Iowerth grins. It is a slight grin, but you know he is more than amused. "I am tending to what needs tending," he blandly replies with a nonchalant look. "Mead?" he offers. It is spring. Mead is plentiful this time of year -- a light drink to follow the hearty winter fare of the season now past. He looks to you, and does a double take.
     You look different.
     You're smiling.
     An arm comes out, as is the habit, and draws you in for a brotherly hug. "You've been missed, you smiling devil," Iowerth murmurs, his smile growing, slanting. Taking up a cup of mead for himself, he heads to a chaise lounge bench, easing onto it under the afternoon sun. "So tell me about your adventures. You missed a lovely winter. We had snow. How's London these days... you are still there, oes? Or have you moved on?"
     Your brother is studying you. You see he senses something, and his mind is working overtime to figure it out. To, as they say, winkle it out of you.

     "Mead would be pleasant," Gwilym allows, moving towards you and into your hug, pounding you on the back once, heartily, before releasing you. "An excellent year, I imagine. But then, aren't they all excellent years? The thieves are all buzzing back in the ports. They foresee excellent opportunities, with your new kingdom, and the changing of the guard." He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "It will not be as profitable to them as they'd like, but there will be profit to go around, oes? They are chary of me, more than they used to be. With you taking the throne, they are less sure which side I will be on."
     He takes up a cup for himself, then moves slowly to follow you, settling on the bench with thighs well spread apart, leaning forward and turning his head to peer at you. "I have been here and there; on the move, as often as not. Playing my games, serious and otherwise. London, most often; I'm thinking I might want to get a place of my own, there, to use as a base, now that mum's back in London. I figure Da's going to want to use the flat above Davy's, and I'd cramp their style. To say nothing of the damage to my psyche if I should pop in at the wrong time."
     He shudders at the thought, then leans back, stretching and cocking an eyebrow at you with a certain arrogant mischief. "You look as if I'm some new and interesting specimen of marine life you've not seen before. Your boy neglecting you that shamefully that you've had to take up some sort of botany to make up for it?"

     He opens his mouth to speak, the shuts it with a grin. "No, he has not been neglecting me. I have not even been guilty of the ...celibacy of the state, which can strike newly minted kings. Not that I am such yet. Though it will be soon. Perhaps as soon as a month." He neither seems surprised nor apprehensive about it. It all appears to be happening on schedule.
     Iowerth settles back, studying you still as he sips at the mead. "You are a new and interesting specimen of...something," he drolls, chuckling at the ends of his words. "I am happy to see you smiling, that is all. And so you have made amends with the material realm? You and it are now seeing eye to eye?"
     He smirks as you shudder, and he echoes it after you. "Please, brawd. Let's not go and ruin the mead with such talk of ... parental connubial activities. It's bad enough they talk about it at the dinner table."
     "Thieves," Iowerth begins, "... have dreams too, don't they? And though they may run... contrary to that of the law... they do have them. There is, as you say, profit enough to go around. So that issue you were having in London." With the Wesleys and such, he means, "... you have resolved them? All is well with Gwilym Gwyn Garu?"

     "Celibacy of the state." Gwilym smirks, shaking his head. "Better you than me, brawd. I think it is just as well I am in no danger of inheriting any kingdoms any time soon; I think that it has been decided, generally speaking, that I am not responsible enough for the task."
     He gestures, to put quotation marks around the word responsible, then leans back again. "Amends? Seeing eye to eye? Ha." He chuckles dryly. "Rich, brawd. I don't think I will ever see eye to eye with anyone or anything for any long period of time, but ... I am making do, oes. I have found something to do with my time, and what man ever really needs more than that?" He leans over, lightly smacking your shoulder. "Oes, well, at least you don't see them as often as I do, when I'm in London! I have been having a few adventures. Risking losing a few internal organs - you know, the usual."
     He goes quiet for a moment, clasping his hands together, looking over at you. "Oes," he says finally, "thieves have dreams. They just have a habit of lying to themselves about those dreams, denying them. When you steal for a living, when you immerse yourself in that ... it's easier not to get your hopes up. To deny yourself what you really want for as long as possible. It's necessary, in a sense. To be hungry. Wanting. Demanding but not getting - it's a frustrating sort of life."
     He chuckles as you bring up the Weasleys, and he stands, shaking his head a little. "They ... well, they mistook me for an enemy in disguise, I looked too much apparently like someone they knew, or thought was dead, or - something. I spent a certain amount of time locked in a closet with someone who looked like he could be related to us who was demanding answers of me until I finally got away from him. I'll have to look him up sometime and give him a hard time in thanks for the goose egg he gave me to the back of my head, but - I am in no hurry. Lately ... I have been spending times in Tours."
     Gwilym slides his hands into his pockets, swinging round to look at you from where he stands. "I've met someone, you see."

     Tours? You see the question mark appear on his face -- both curiosity and confusion. Why would anyone want to go to Tours, specifically, for more than a day? But you answer the question before he can pose it. You are in Tours because you have met someone.
     The expression of curious confusion dissolves into astonishment. Slowly, like sugar in cold liquid. "Really?" Iowerth says finally. He seems uncertain, for a moment, if you are pulling his leg. Finally he decides you are not. You would have laughed right after. Or rolled your eyes. "I'm happy for you, brawd. How long? When and how did you end up in Tours, of all places. It's a beautiful city, certainly a lovely part of France, if a bit random." Random that you should end up there.
     Iowerth's expression warms in his blinking. "I'm trying not to be shocked, but I guess I am a little. But that explains all the grinning," he smirks. "A shite-eating grin if there ever was one. So... tell me about him," he murmurs. "I would like to hear about him, even though I know you hate giving up your secrets, divulging the location of any of your treasures...but ...humor me."

     He grins at you, eyes sparkling, but it is a quiet grin; he is not loud, not exuberant about this. If anything - he seems quiet, almost shy, and a little embarrassed. "You know me too well, oes?" Gwilym murmurs. "To know that it is a him, not a her. It is," he admits, "and he is ... not like anyone I have ever met. It is probably just as well, for the best, that way."
     If the world were people with more like you, Iovis, what kind of world would that be? I do not know. But I am jealous and possessive, in my own way. I want there to be only one of you. One - mine.
     He moves back to the couch, sinking down, turning his head again to look at you, with both hands clasped loosely in his lap. "He is Italian. From Genoa - and a thief. Dark hair and eyes in an olive face, filled with exuberance and violence. I doubt you would like him. You would find him too exaggerated, I think. I ..." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "It is what I do, when I am making noise, so I suppose it is different for me. I do not look at him with your eyes. We met in shadows."
     Not the shadows of an alley, though; the shadows which lie between. How much should I tell you, brawd? How much before you begin to feel your responsibilities weighing upon you? It is pleasant torment, this.
     "He is older than we are," Gwilym murmurs, leaning towards you to touch your hand. An unusual thing, of late, with how withdrawn into himself he's been. "He is ... I do not know how to explain it, Io. Where should I begin?"

     An Italian. He rests his head on a hand, his elbow on the arm of the chair he dominates (for he rules it more than rests in it), and he turns those periwinkle eyes to you. "You do not have to tell me more than you wish to tell me," Iowerth quietly replies. Fiery eyebrows raise slowly, "What could be more exaggerated than this?" A hand gestures to the Greco-Romano-Byzantinian surroundings as he chuckles.
     "I do know you," your brother quietly confirms. "And so... of course he is a handsome scoundrel. Someone you can respect, but someone who can get the better of you. A fox... deserves a fox, Gwilym." Sitting up, Iowerth finishes his mead. He sets the cup aside and then folds his hands against his stomach.
     "All I really want to know about him is whether he makes you happy. It is clear that he does now. If you are happy, then I am happy, Gwilym. Though I know how uncomfortable you are with happiness." He smiles at the circular logic that is you. "How long have you been seeing him?"
     If there is jealousy, he is hiding it well. But even if there were jealousy, it would not change his wanting you to be happy. "Long enough to tell me about it," he answers his own question quietly and with a smile. Sitting forward, he slaps a hand gently upon your leg. "You are taken with him...he must be... quite the spectacle..."

     "Well, I know I don't have to," Gwilym retorts. "When was the last time anyone managed to make me do something I did not have to do which I did not also want to do?" He grins a little at you, shaking his head and standing again. Restless as always, seldom able to stand still, wasting motion and energy when he is with you.
     His hands rake back through his hair, and he exhales slowly. "Out in the world, I suppose he is less exaggerated than this, though at times, people would probably think that he borders on being a caricature of his people. But that is his age and his youth all at once, Io. He moves with such energy - he knows the value of flair, though he does not do as I do. He does not like to make a spectacle of himself." He smiles a little bit, just a little bit, remembering. "I think it drives him a little crazy, how much I do."
     He moves forward to straddle the end of the chaise, leaning forward towards you with both palms against the upholstery. "He is handsome," Gwilym admits. "And ... talented. In many ways. He torments me; it pulls at my gut. It is still difficult for me to believe that he might - be interested in spending time with me, as anything other than brothers in arms, birds of a feather." He makes a face at you, miming throwing something - a rock, a snowball, a pillow. "I doubt that it will last."
     That is his fear speaking, the furtive lurking stoicism to ward off disappointment. Be pessimistic, and you are never disappointed, oes? "Taken with him? I ... do not know how to explain it, Io. But ... I think he is the one I saw, the last time we were in your city." Emerald eyes meet your periwinkle ones, then slide away, all smile gone. "I have not told him about it. It - would be too much for him, I think, for now. He is not of this world, after all. But he sin't mortal, either."

     Iowerth inclines his head. "I am sure that to someone I am a Welsh cliche," he drolls. "Whatever that may be apart from someone who breaks into song or tears at the drop of a hat." He pauses, considering the rest of what you say. "I think you should ...keep that to yourself for now. You do not know what your vision could mean, good or bad. And if he is not of this world as you say, who knows if your vision planted the image of my city as a random city image. It could easily be Tours, London, Lisbon for all we know. But there is no point putting pressure on something so new. It is like... building a fire. Though fire needs oxygen to burn, too much will put it out."
     "Enjoy it for what it is, for whatever it will be, if anything. Just... enjoy the present, Gwi. Without getting too caught up in the meaning of the vision or ... what the future shall bring. That way, maybe you will be pleasantly surprised, oes? At the very least, you shan't have missed it while it was happening." He smiles a little at you, straddling his legs on the chaise. "I want your happiness. Give it a chance."
     There is the briefest of pauses. "Do I want to know what he is?" he wonders idly. He knows your tastes, he knows the dangers of the world. "I am not sure I do," Iowerth drolls, his smile turning wry. "You have had The Talk with papa, no doubt. He made me listen to it twice," he smirks. "But you know your secrets are safe with me, Gwilym." The door is open for you, should you want to discuss it. But he has also, wisely, provided you with an "out". Your brother does know you well.
     Periwinkle eyes rest on you and Iowerth sits up to lean in closer to you. "I won't tell you to be careful. Love doesn't work that way. If I had been careful, where would I be now?"

     "We're both Welsh cliches, if that's the grounds for judgment," Gwilym answers you with a quicksilver grin, glinting and brilliant. "And oes - I am keeping it to myself." As quick as his smile, he sobers just as quickly. He is not giddy with his emotions. "I do not know," he admits. "I ... am trying to come to terms with not knowing things."
     It is difficult, as a thief, a spy. What you don't know can so easily kill you. And there are things in all of this which he does not know. Cannot begin to know. To which he must not only accept not knowing, but ... make an effort to avoid learning...
     "Would you be happier in knowledge or ignorance? I can't answer that for anyone but myself, and perhaps not me. But - it is my choice, oes. I've heard papa's lectures," Gwilym smirks as well, "possibly even more than you, considering the tasks I sometimes do for him - the job for which I was being groomed before this world pulled us back. As for careful..."
     Gwilym exhales with a sigh. "I could no more be careful than I could give birth to a pineapple," he drolls, but his smile is skew - lopsided, as his mother's sometimes is. "I do not know if this is love, Io. I tell myself that it must be, and then I back away from the notion. I go round and round with it, and I fall over, wrestling, kicking and punching and biting most savagely. And in the end, I am no wiser than I was when I began. Time will tell, or nothing will. I cannot say that word."

     "Love may or may not have anything whatsoever to do with it," he gives you a look. Lust, too, has its day. The smile that follows says all he needs to say on that subject. "You are feeling something, whatever it is, it could be indigestion. Or, it is love. Or it is merely the anticipation of your own demise. In the beginning, it all rather feels the same," your brother dryly pronounces.
     But then it cracks for a sidelong grin and a throat-held chuckle. "Would I be happier in knowledge or ignorance? Let's ask Adam, shall we? I believe that is the quintessential question of the universe, my brother. For now, give me the illusion of ignorance. If you are still seeing him in a year, then... come confess, my door will be open for you as always."
     Fingers lifted to steeple at his mouth, Iowerth looks at you pointedly. "Have you fully examined the vision of yours. Dissected it to its common elements, its base materials, so to speak? You may be making yourself unnecessarily wary otherwise. Stop scaring yourself, Gwilym," Iowerth chuckles. "No wonder you usually wander around in a tizzy. You've got yourself wound up on hypotheticals chased with a double of avoidance."
     Your brother unlaces his fingers, dropping his hands to his lap a moment before his arms spread across the back of the chaise lounge. "You don't have to define what it is. You like him. I am assuming that you enjoy him," that word enjoy. It has so many meanings and, just now, all of them horrible. Iowerth's lips twitch at that. He can just imagine. That's the trouble. "There is nothing wrong with simply enjoying that. It's when he's so far under your skin you can't breathe right that you can start wondering about what to call it."

     "It is hard to analyze. It is a pair of eyes, and a feeling." Gwilym stands again, restless as ever. "I could write it, paint it, sing it, tell it - but try once to analyze it, and it slips away, becomes as nothing more than dust in the wind. The best I could do would be to turn it over to someone else to analyze. Maybe I should go on a quest."
     It comes out suddenly, and his eyes gleam. A quest. That is what has been missing, yes? Something heroic and dashing and rather of the old school of fantasies and kingdoms. He is a prince, isn't he? Isn't that what princes do?
     But it deflates a moment later. "I don't think I know anyone or of anyone who could analyze it, though. Well. Noone not already related to us, and how much of a bloody quest is it to go to our own parents and grandparents." Gwilym sits back down, plunking his hands against his thighs. "Hallo, mum, figured I'd just drop in for dinner, and, oh, by the way, there's this vision that's been niggling at me, pesky things, visions, rather like mice. Got any advice? Well, son, if you take a potato and cut it into fours and rub it against your skin, that will get rid of any warts and leave you with an absolutely lovely complexion," he answers himself in falsetto, "and when you go to sleep that night, you'll see clearly what your vision meant." He turns to look at you, mouth twisting wryly. "It just isn't a quest without a dragon to trick, trap or kill."
     He is nervous, nervy, beneath it all. He always is when he rattles things off like that instead of just making a short, sharp quip and moving on. Yes - he likes him. You can be sure of that...

     He does have eyes. He can, indeed, see. Iowerth smiles, laughs when you mimic your joint mother. Your falsetto sounds nothing like her, which makes it all the more hilarious. When he laughs like he does, he sounds like his father. Both men look about eight to ten years old when they laugh. It is instant fountain of youth.
     "Excuse me?" Your brother eases out. "As a dragon-blessed king, I resemble that remark." Periwinkle eyes sparkle in mock offense and warning. You know it for the lie it is by the canting of his smile. "I don't think questing is going to provide you the answers, no. Or rather, I think you are already on your quest. You have a dragon by the...tail," he settles on. "What other quest could be any more telling than the one you're already on..."
     Iowerth watches you fidget, physically and emotionally, and with a wave of his hand conjures another round of drinks. "My prescription won't have any potatoes in it at all. This man you're with... what's his name? I don't want to go about calling him That Man or Some Bloke. That's rude. So... he... whatever his name is... how does he treat you? How do you think he feels? Do you feel you're walking in that vision? You seem to think that the vision will be detrimental. I'm just not convinced..."

     "But I want to go on a quest," Gwilym mock-whines. "You never let me do anything fun! Well, sod you, anyway." He leans over, lighting punching your shoulder. "How dare you not let me run away from this mess. Don't you know that nine times out of ten, if you run away from a problem long enough, someone else will have cleared it away before you get back?"
     His lips twitch a little, and he moves to take up a goblet, drinking deeply and closing his eyes. "The vision," he says finally, "oes - I do. I feel at times the way I did in it; and I would swear that they are his eyes that I have seen. I do not know if the vision will be detrimental or not. I only know how it feels; what little I know..." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug.
     He drinks again, then sets the goblet aside once more, pacing back and forth in front of you. "His name? His name is Iovis," Gwilym imparts slowly, reluctantly. Emerald eyes find you, then glance away again. "He ... treats me well. He says he feels for me, and that it is strange - unusual - difficult. He trusts me, Io. He is possessive. Jealous." His eyes spark at the memories, a faint smile curving, tugging at the edges and corners of his mobile mouth. "He wants me."

     Iowerth sits back. He says nothing for a time, but his look to you is stuffed full of meaning. There is a softening around his eyes. "What is not to want?" he quietly offers. "You are... you. I haven't met the person yet who didn't want you. Has that not always been your way? Since we were fifteen," Iowerth answers his own rhetorical question, his voice still that quiet pitch. "At least. If not before," he drolls in soft humor again.
     "It is good for him that he does treat you well. Or he'd have to answer to me." He smiles a little but you can tell your brother is deadly serious. Your Iovis is not the only one who has such feelings. But he knows he cannot possess you. And yet he knows he possesses you more than any other shall. He is your brother.
     Iowerth exhales softly, "Iovis. Jove. Jupiter." He quirks suddenly. "Leave it to you to fuck a god." He looks at you for many moments, warmth in his eyes, his expression. "You never do anything in half measures. No, my brother, you do not. Does he look like some Italian god then? Hmm? Some relic of Rome?"

     He looks at you, head tilted to one side in that listening posture; the fox, pricking up his ears. His expression is quiet, half amused, half bitter. "No, brawd. What have they wanted? They have wanted something they see without understanding. They don't see me, they see the wrapper, and never get past the surface to find out who or what I am. This time ... it is different. Why - I do not know. How - I don't know that either. But he isn't fooled."
     And that is frightening. Exciting and frightening both. That someone can see through him, and not only can but does, is willing to take that perhaps fatal step further in, deeper; his eyes spark for a moment with it, before his expression also softens, and he gives you a smile of such singular sweetness.
     "Looking out for me, brawd? But you have your boy." There is no resentment in his voice, his eyes. This has changed things, for him. "You know me, oes? Better than you think, even if you do not let yourself look so closely." He moves to where you sit, setting his hands on your shoulders and leaning down to look you in the eye; he laughs, once, then frees you.
     "I don't want you to become other than who you are," Gwilym says quietly, tells you. "Who I am, what I am - mine is a bloody road, brawd. I love you, but I do not want you to walk it with me. Not because you would not; but because you would. And I do not want to see you be warped by it, or look at me with disdain or disgust because of it. I can only speak this honestly about it, this openly, because of him; I don't know how, I don't know why. Do you understand, Io? I hope you do. Because," his grin tugs wryly, "I don't."
     His hand goes to your hair, fingers sliding through and tugging a little before he withdraws it; withdraws himself back a space, as if to dispel some of the heat he feels, the heat he generates. "He is shorter than I am," Gwilym drawls, "so I suppose not god-like in stature, but I do not mind. He puts me in mind of Hermes. Small, slight, but vigorous - there is no doubt when he makes his presence known. Few can find him if he does not want to be found, but when he does..."
     His smile grows by degrees, until it is a riot across his face. "He is filled with passion. He does nothing without announcing himself, his personality, whether it is scaring off a would-be thug by throwing a knife to land just above his head or informing me with no lack of certainty what he will do if people on a dance floor get too clever. What he feels, he feels right away, strongly, and he announces it; and he moves on. He fascinates me. He is like a kaleidoscope; always in movement, always showing some new facet, yet always intrinsically the same."

     "I have Tiernan, oes," Iowerth says after you return to your own space. "And I love him. But I have you... I will always have you. And you will always have me. Always. You are my brother. My other." He lets that hang there, and then he takes a swallow of wine. "But," his smile winds its winsome way across his mouth, his expression, "... you have Jupiter himself in the palm of your hand."
     He chuckles shortly. "I am not going to follow you. I wouldn't dare. You'd get me into some awful trouble or another. And I'm not as young as I used to be. Or as fast as you are." He laughs again, warmly and richly, and he shakes his head.
     The wine is finished in a swallow and he sets the glass aside with an exhale. "He sounds... interesting. A puzzle. You need that. Someone to figure out. Someone to attempt to figure you out," he remarks quietly. "I would not try to examine it too closely. Besides, that was never your strong suit, brawd. You... you attract and elude. You never were the bookish philosopher. That's my job."
     Iowerth is quiet again. There is space you put between the two of you. Perhaps you are wise to. "I have missed you, but I understand that you are... otherwise engaged," he grins. "I shall be soon myself, I hear. In a month, papa says... I shall be king. But... I want you to know, Gwilym, that I will always have time in my day, or my nights, for you. Do not hesitate to interrupt me, oes? Do not think because I am king, that I will be too busy to wonder where the hell you are and why the hell you're not here."

     "You have me," Gwilym agrees quietly, looking over at you. "And that is where you and he differ, brawd. You don't give chase. He," his head tips to the side, and he smiles sharply, knowingly, "does. I don't know where it is leading. It is a dangerous game. Too dangerous, maybe. I do not want to die. I do not intend to die. But I've never looked closely at foretelling the future; only forestalling it."
     You moves to drop next to you; space built, closed, opened, diminished again. He moves as restlessly and unceasingly as a sea. His hand drops for a moment to yours, his head turning so that he can look at you. "You are more than a bookish philosopher. Don't denigrate yourself, Io." His voice is warm, gaze intent. "Don't misunderstand me. This is not goodbye - not unless it is what you want to say."
     I crave complications where you crave simplicity, I think. But then, I am crazy, aren't I? I run from the world, dragging it with me always. I don't know what to say to you. I want to tell you the truth - but not too much truth, or you might go away. I feel as if you are going away, even now. Now that there is someone else in my life, you will become remote, changing things in ways I don't want to change. But I can never speak of it. It is like crunching down on a mouthful of broken glass.
     Abruptly, he stands again. "Better you for the job than I," Gwilym murmurs. "I cannot rule even my thoughts, let alone a dozen kingdoms. It's good you have Tiernan. He is better at caring for you than I am."

     "Tiernan is not my brother, not my twin," Iowerth reminds you. "He cares for me differently than you. But no better. You know I do not judge it, I do not compare. And ... we will have no goodbyes between us. Not even casually. Hmm? Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever." He leans in toward you at the voicing of 'ever', his gaze locking with your own. "Not even before the eyes of Jove himself."
     With a slant of a smile, that slight quirk of his mouth, Iowerth leans back. "I cannot chase, you are right. And even if I could, even if it were in my power, I do not think it would be in my personality to do so. And you crave that. Why should I wish you to deny yourself? You should enjoy the chase. Enjoy it for what it is. Do not worry about what it may or may not be. Just... enjoy it for a time. Give yourself that. I repeat myself," he begins, settling back with a regal air. "I have said all this before."
     You stand and soon you will go. This is how we are...
     And this time, he does not try to stop you. He knows you are leaving. And now... you have someone to go to. "I should like to meet him one day, though I suspect this will not be possible and you would balk at that anyway." Iowerth's gaze sparkles in a visual grin, periwinkle dancing like fish beneath the waves. "But if I cannot, I will just imagine that you are cavorting around Mount Olympus with a shape-shifting Jove. I will just tell you now to beware the waterfalls. And swans," he grins.
     Iowerth stands and he crosses over to you. He pulls you into a sudden, warm hug. "I love you," he says in your ear. "And I am happy for you that someone is finally giving chase." Parting from the hug, he puts a hand to the nape of your neck. Iowerth rests his forehead against yours for a moment, and then he smiles.

     You lean in, you speak, and it is as if you have punctured him. He does not deflate, but for a moment, tension eases, and you receive a dark, wild-eyed look. But he doesn't say anything; he listens instead. Listens for a time, watching you settle back, the corners of his mouth tucked back and away, giving nothing away.
     Already, you become the king. I stand here, and I watch you, and I miss you with such intensity that it aches, brawd. My eyes would leak if I'd let them. I want things to change; duw, but I don't know. What would I change? What could I change? How can we be other than as we are, who we are? Thus does fate make fools of us all.
     "I want you to meet him." This is new, isn't it? He looks at you, shaking his head so that his longer lock falls over his eye. "I want you to see him. You know me so well, oes? You should meet him. If it is meant to be or not, it doesn't matter; if I am letting him into my life, then that means that he has to know I have a family; a brother, at least. We do what we do as we always have, in the dark." His mouth quirks a bit at that; yes, we most certainly do. "I mean, from mum, and da, and papa; we do as we do. I wouldn't for anything endanger them, or you. But - if this is real - it will take grounding. And you are the one I trust even above myself."
     You pull him in, and his head bows, cheek brushing your shoulder, then forehead to yours. "I miss you," Gwilym says quietly. His hand comes up, clasps your shoulder, then drops loosely, as if he does not know what to do with it. "I love you, too."
     I am receding. I do not want to go - but soon, I will leave, as you know. I will leave, I will go somewhere else, and I will question myself : why do I do this. Why am I this way. If I can, I will find him, the dark eyes from my vision. And if I cannot, I will go somewhere, and I will make noise; I will call the world to me, in bacchanalia, a modern-day Dionysus, maddening the world with my touch. But I miss you, my twin, my love. I suppose it is every man's struggle, to return to the closeness of the womb. Where else is there peace, after all?

Posted by rowan at November 19, 2006 09:36 PM