When the ship left the next day, Iowerth watched it leave. He stood at the summit of his grand basilica, the envy of any ghost of Greece or Rome or Venice, and from his atrium cast his eyes out to the sea. He watched as The Drake and another ship pulled from the bay and charged the open waters.
When the ships could no longer be discerned from the waves, Iowerth Rhudd Draig turned and jogged down the many stairs from the height of his palace to the city streets below. Once there, he turned himself into insubstantial wind -- not a simple feat for one as substantial as he.
From the wind to a bird on the wing...
A large seabird capable of hovering, it would seem, for hours on end waiting for just the right clam, drifts from the main island and around, from current to current hopping, until it rounded the remotest of the islands. And then it disappeared.
There are ways he has learned. While he is no walker of The Road as his brother, he has learned enough to get to where he needs to go. The way has been laid out for him. From sea bird to starling to arrow, he moves, arriving with a thud into the door, and then through it to the Center of All Things.
From sea bird to starling to hiss of the arrow in the air, the message of his arrival flew ahead of him, from his intent to the curve of his brother's ear. It was as good as whispered there.
Iowerth Rhudd Draig steps into the familiar room. There are doors all over, but he dares not be too adventurous. Only Gwilym Gwyn Garu can walk these halls with any confidence, any confidence at all. Clothed in his midnight blue leathers with a midnight blue shirt, he could be anywhere and at any Time.
Even without your message sent, he would know that you have arrived there. The air thrums with your presence, sending ripples that will find him no matter where he is, no matter who with. It echoes along his veins, strumming and humming as a plucked chord on a guitar, the strings vibrating long after fingers have ceased to move. And he rolls over from where he lays, sitting up and stretching with a quiet groan.
In the Center of All Things, it is quiet. Somewhere, there is the dripping of water; a quiet pitching sound. There are lights, but there are never very many lights - nothing to banish the clinging shadows which roll and trickle slowly through the halls. Is it a building? A hollowed-out mountain? An island fortress? The windows, where they are, look out to all of those and none of those. Forgotten places have accumulated here, piling up to collect their own congregation. They have been knit together, knotted and twined by Gwilym from where he has found them to this strange non-place.
Waiting for me, brawd? The words are quiet, without the lilt of humour or of anger. Give me a bit to get myself together and grab my ... friend, oes? If you want, there's some books in the cupboard - no guarantee of how good they are, but they beat magazine's in a doctor's waiting room.
He straightens, looks around in shadows for where he's left his clothes - with a shrug, neglects them. They're yesterday's clothes, anyway. He can weave finer cloth than that from those shadows. Black silk, black leather, star-pocked at the shoulders. Boots, trousers, shirt, jacket, and he runs his fingers through his hair, which has grown long again in front though short in back. Had he a mirror, he would see himself looking his father's brother rather than son - but he does not look. He has a vampire to find, or wake.
Aren't I always waiting for you? The reply would be the usual quipping banter on a normal day. But it has been an abnormal night followed by a strangely quiet day. The words are as his brother would expect, but the tone is a bit too thoughtful. I shall just busy myself then. Don't worry about me.
Iowerth can occupy himself for hours in absolute stillness. In fact, today he welcomes such stillness. Suddenly, there is a book in the hand, a selection of brandies, and a banquet table full of food to keep him company.
As he sits, he wonders of the wisdom of having this meeting at this particular point in time. But there is no undoing what is already done. And perhaps, just perhaps, this Jupiter in miniature will be interesting. It may be the tonic his heart and mind need.
He has not been able to fully shake off the residue of his previous evening. It clings to him like fog around the ankles. But a glass of brandy, reading someone else's words. These may be the beginning of the turning of the tide.
Gwilym is wondering, a little, at your reply; but it is too late to alter matters, yes? What has been decided upon - ah, well. He scratches his head and then steps through shadows to that halfway world, twilight and shadow coloured. His feet glide upon the paths soundlessly, so soundlessly that the spider that's strayed onto the path never notices him until his knife crunches through hard-shelled thorax. It is withdrawn; the spider, in agony, rolls onto its back with eight legs twitching. And he is already gone.
It is not until he steps through to the streets of Tours that he takes out his cell phone and peers at it. Messages, phone numbers - evidence of ties to a world to which he does not entirely belong. He slips along the shadows of the waterfront, in pursuit already.
I should have gotten his phone number at some point. But I suppose to both of us, that was too easy - too convenient. Are we at a point where we are ready to forego the hunt at all? I am not sure. We are as we are...
Abandon the game? Never! The darkness seems to cackle it where Iovis Macarelli cannot. Tours is cold. It is still winter in this part of the world. It is the biting damp of January. In such overcast, in such dampness, sins can be washed away like a second birth.
No one is seeking redemption tonight. The excesses of the end of the year linger around the city streets. There is still time before Lent to enjoy life. The streets are crowded despite the weather. Traffic is moving, people shuttling from shop to homes, from homes to restaurants, from restaurants to clubs.
It is far quieter in the neighborhoods that have seen better days, better centuries. The commercial riverside is all but vacant. Only the brownstones hulking by the river belie the presence of men and women.
Through the narrow streets, narrower in the old sections of town, a red and black Ducati barrels, its motor revving as it accelerates, zooming in and out of pathways, connective alleyways. It spins, a booted heel coming down to balance and steer through the swerving, and heads toward the brownstone.
Rolling into the alley, the throttle is gunned. By this Iovis announces to those nearby: Get out of my parking space, you bastards!
Standing straddled over the machine, leather sturdy -- more for protection than fashion -- Iovis Macarelli removes the helmet and gloves. The black curls have been cut a little shorter, a little less feral, but they still crowd his eyes. The black leather jacket fits close to him, as if it were painted there. It is sturdy and shows the signs of wear and road tear.
The motor tells him the tale, even if you do not. Gwilym chuckles almost soundlessly as he heads into the alley by way of shadows. He is invisible - until he is suddenly not, pale skin and brilliant hair and eyes gleaming in contrast to all of the black he wears. It is dangerous to be sudden around you. But it is dangerous to be fucking you and fucked by you. He has never shied away from that element of danger.
"So this is what you do when I am not around to entertain you, eh, Macarelli?" The words are rattled off in excellent French, but the laugh that follows is Welsh, pure (and impure) delight. "Racin' around fit to break your neck." Gwilym leans against the wall, one foot on top of the other and arms folded over his chest as he regards you.
More quietly, now, he speaks as he looks at you. He is taking you in fully, appreciating what he sees. Leather. Mm. "Y' free tonight?", the thief of shadows wonders softly. "I've got someone I'd like you to meet."
He heard you, even with the motor going. Twisting to look at you, Iovis grins. It is a deadly look. You know where the hooks lie. He switches off the motor with the turn of a key, and steps off, the bike leaning on its lowered kick-stand. He pockets the key in the snug leather somehow, somewhere.
"Amice," Iovis croons, arms folding against his chest. He looks at you, thinking about your question. Am I free? "Sure," he answers in easy French, making a wave suddenly and grinning. "Death is always free. What do you have in mind, eh?" Black eyebrows do a little dance as he approaches you.
His hands come out, and he gives you the Italian greeting of a kiss on each cheek. Hand still on your shoulder, he walks with you into the alley. "Is this the blind date you've been trying to get me to do?" He winks. "Let's do it. I'm in a fine mood. Racing does that to me. I am the fastest in all of France!" he shouts.
Indeed, for all the world to hear...
You are in a fine mood indeed. And it makes him a little relieved. Were you in a sour mood - well, that might not be the best time to take you to meet his brother. Gwilym smiles halfway as you half-greet him and half-lead him. "You won, of course," he guesses. You would be bloodier if you had not. "What did you get, or just the thrill of being fastest?"
Not that you need more. But he knows you. You like to gamble. He does himself. "We should go to Monte Carlo sometime," Gwilym grins, his hand landing at your hip for a moment. "Oes, that date. Whenever you are ready. Have you eaten?"
He is not asking if you want to stop for a pizza.
"Oh, si, si... that was the trophy," he grins, eyes flashing wide and dark. He doesn't elaborate. It's more fun (for him) that way. "I am ready," he says, his arm laying across your shoulder. He's much shorter than you, even though for a Genoan he is quite tall. "I feel, amice, as if I could be emperor of Rome tonight. Thumbs up, thumbs down. Bring me grapes!" He grins, his arm hugging you a bit before letting you go. "So, yes, I think it would be good to meet this person. And then... we can do other things, yes? I am in a mood, I will warn you. Ha! As if you needed my warning..."
He makes a gesture for you to lead the way. He's not going to change. He is utterly himself. "Ah... momentito..." he whispers, and he dashes back over to his bike. The Ducati is secured, wheel locks mounted. He likewise chains it to the fire escape.
"Now, amice, I am ready, si?"
He furrows his eyebrows - he's curious now, almost curious enough to ask. But he does not, mainly because he knows that he has somewhere to be. "You are in a mood," Gwilym grins his agreement, "but oes, alright. When you're ready."
You are in a mood. And it triggers his own mood, a little; knowing your darkness, seeing it in motion, it makes him hungry in his own way. But he does not speak of it. He lets his eyes speak of it for him, with the way that they follow you, the way they glitter in the dimly available light. When you come back over towards him, he bows slightly.
"Right, then - this way." Gwilym steps back into the shadows, beckoning for you to follow him. His smile spreads by degrees, Cheshire-like, almost taunting.
Follow me, yes, do - follow me where noone else could follow me. I put off my moods to be affected by this, and almost, I don't care what will happen next. Follow me home...
Iovis throws himself into darkness. He does not hesitate, not even after being mauled by hell-beasts and Chaos' children. You are fire; he is smoke. Where you burn, he follows. It pulses from him, the blood he has stolen, the heat he has captured. It will last through the night in swarthy warmth.
And though you lead, and though he follows, and though you know one another, it feels as though he is trailing you, not following you. Tracking you, as he first did, through the shadows till he caught you.
In the Center of Things, a king sits and reads. A glass of brandy is held in one hand, the book balanced by the other. Booted feet are propped up on a table, crossed at the ankles. It is not his first glass of brandy. It will not be he last.
His layered hair is mussed by a hand purposefully, held in place by the wax of magic bees. He smells faintly of brandy and honey, like a resin that smolders. His hair becomes the flames. Fully periwinkle, his eyes shimmer as his mind absorbs the book, something of history.
There is a panicky sort of pleasure in being tracked by you, hunted - even if there is little danger of you waylaying him tonight, mauling him with your pleasure as you were mauled with pain. You receive that glinting fox's smile for a moment; and then he pulls you with him, heading to the Center as if you and he were water circling down a drain. It pulls as inexorably, as finally, to that destination.
You and he land in one of the several antechambers scattered throughout his 'home', and Gwilym presses a fingertip to his lips. Wait a moment, he says without speaking.
Brawd? We're here. Shall we come ahead, or should I come and make sure it's safe?
Safe? Iowerth's thought drifts slowly from one chamber to another, from his mind to his brother's blood. Safe from whom? Not me, surely. Come. I have dinner, if you care to eat. And brandy if you care to drink. You... and your ...friend.
Iovis folds his arms against his leathered chest as you put your finger to your lips. His mouth twists an amused smile as his eyes look down the hall and to his surroundings. He waits for you to lead the way.
Iowerth is rising, the book closing after the next moment. He leans against the table, finishing one glass of brandy and twisting to pour himself another. His expression is quiet, merely waiting for something to react to...
Ah, this is awkward. It is hard not to feel a bit as if he should be toeing the dirt - as if he is bringing home a report card for examination. "Come on, then," Gwilym murmurs to Iovis, starting forward. He will head in first, oes? He rakes his fingers impatiently through his hair again as he does so, coming in to look at his brother. Midnight blue versus black. Alike and yet not. Both tattooed, and yet different.
And yet, under the skin, brawd, as like as we can be... in so many ways. I would not want to try to go through this life without you. I would feel such grief.
"Brandy," Gwilym announces, his eyes lighting up. And he swerves from where his brother sits to where the brandy sits instead. "You absolutely should have. Iovis, care for sommat? My brother's a gifted sort when it comes to spirits. This is him, by the way," he adds offhandedly, pointing with a glass he's picked up. "Iowerth, Iovis. Iovis, Iowerth - my twin brother. Don't get him started about all the ways in which I'm a scurvy rogue - he's a seafaring man, he'll go on for hours."
Nervous? No, not at all, why would you think that? He pours brandy - it gives him something to do with his hands - and then he turns, green eyes alighting on first one and then the other, never still.
There is a moment of mutual sizing up.
For Iowerth, it is taking note of the presence of this man, this Jupiter in miniature. How he moves. How his eyes move. His stance. He tries to see what his brother would see...
For Iovis, there is the immediate noting of where you are similar and where you are not. A recognition of the twin components, and yet...not identical. And he takes note of your brother's presence.
When they shake hands, it is like the Captain of All the Ships of the World shaking the hand of the Pirate King...
"A pleasure," Iowerth notes. "I have provided for tonight," he twists, gesturing to the tables of food and drink.
Iovis shakes your brother's hand, eyebrows lifting as his eyes go to the feast. "Si, si... good to meet the twin of my amice. Is that cannoli?" He lets your brother's hand go free and makes a bee-line for the food. "It is cannoli," he murmur to himself in something akin to rapture.
Iowerth smirks. "I thought you might appreciate that. And ... please... help yourselves." He glances to his brother as Iovis takes the plate of cannolis. Well, I can see the attraction. No need to be nervous on my account. He is... your type. All over. With glass refilled, Iowerth returns to his seat. "My brother has been keeping me in suspense about you. He's a bit of a tease... if you haven't noticed..." he drolls.
Iovis cackles, his chuckle loud as he glances to his lover's twin. "There is not much to tell," he grins, pouring a brandy for himself. "But we have some things in common, si? Besides the spelling of our first names and the company," a nod toward Gwilym, "...that we keep. I am from Genoa originally. I hear you are an accomplished captain. Have you been to my Genoa? Such ships she used to have!"
Iowerth lifts an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you again. "Genoa. I have been to both Genoa and That Other Italian Port," Venice. "I have studied a great deal of Genoan history, at least as it pertains to shipping and the Age of Discovery..."
It is vexing. He wants you two to like each other - but at the same time, not too much! Taking his brandy, he moves to a chair and sprawls back in it. "Me? A tease? Pfft! To think I brought you two together, just t' hear you malign me to my face," he mock-grouses. "Couldn't even wait til I leave the room, oes?"
He grins, however, the comet-streak of boldness. He is too nervous for his usual smile. It is twisting in his stomach. Will he lose one of you tonight? Will something terrible happen? Will something terrible be revealed (about himself)?
My type? I wasn't aware I had a 'type'. What type is that? His attention is captured by that. He has a type? He had no idea. And he isn't playing at it.
I am as nervous as a virgin at an orgy. Bah. I hate this.
"Io," Gwilym nods his head to his brother, "stole his first ship at age six. Another something you two have in common." He smirks. Theft. It does run in the family, after all.
"I prefer the term commandeered," Iowerth corrects. "The ship was after all mine. I simply ...took it a few years early." The smile that follows is bland and blithe. He sips at the brandy, his eyes on his brother for the time being. It is not as if Iovis shall miss anything -- he's busy worshipping the banquet. He has some...quality. Danger, certainly. But you and he are sort of a matching set. I won't stay long. You're already nervous.
A smile leaps to Iovis' face, his dark features lightened slightly by it. "Si, si!" He glances to Gwilym, gesturing toward Iowerth. "Him, I like." Looking to Iowerth, Iovis grins. "And I prefer the term liberated." He laughs quietly and takes a seat with his cannoli and brandy. "Ah, it has been too long since my last cannoli. It is impossible to get good food in Tours. Grazie, grazie mille," his effuses gratitude.
Glancing from Iovis to Gwilym, Iowerth tips his head in though. "I haven't been to Tours."
"You aren't missing much! Pah..."
He is very earthy. He is like ... hmm.. I don't know. I feel smoke and oil. He is handsome. Iowerth looks to his brother, thoughts slipping from his eyes as he sips his brandy. "I won't keep you," he notes for the record to both of you. "I mainly wanted to at least stop by and meet you. I know it is something Gwilym has been wishing."
Mouth full of cheese and noodle and sauce, Iovis looks to both of you, finishing the bite of cannoli and swallowing it down with a wash of brandy. "Amice's family is important to him. As he is important to me, so it became important to me. I have never been introduced to a family member before, si?" He looks to Gwilym, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. Only for you, amice.
He reminds me of you. He is not lying. Here and now, there is something, some likeness, and it perturbs him. He will have to chew on it. Gwilym looks at you, then closes his eyes, exhaling. Don't leave if you don't want to. I will be fine, brawd. Aren't I always?
It is not because of now that he is as he is. The darkness in him has not yet left him from when it came the other night. He opens his eyes and it is there, lurking behind the brilliance of the emeralds, for all that he smiles. "Ah, oes, liberated. My brother is a grand liberator," he confides in Iovis. "You should see, sometimes, how he 'liberates' - everything but himself."
We are alike in that. We lock ourselves down. I wonder why we do that. Something in our genetics, I suppose...
He turns to look at you both. "Before you go," Gwilym says self-importantly, "I thought I'd tell you both what I have decided to do, while I have you both here, oes?" he grins, a flash of white teeth, and he presses his hands around his brandy. "I am auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Papa will probably go purple when he hears it. But that's never been a reason for me to avoid something, and I need something to devote myself to; so for a little while, this will be it."
He shrugs. Even for him, it seems anticlimactic, now. But he has said it, and he stands up, crossing to his brother and tossing back his brandy. "If you insist on going..."
That gets open-mouthed gaping from Iovis and arched eyebrow curiosity from Iowerth...
"I have seen the show in Paris. It reminds me of some of the spectacles of the Festivale in Genoa. It is amazing, si? What the human body can do. Ah... so... you will be touring then?" At that, his mouth twists. I do not think I am going to like you touring. Iovis looks you up and down. "With all of those men in the little outfits. I do not know, suddenly, if I like this idea."
Iowerth looks at his brother a long moment. He does not see the similarities between himself and Iovis. But he recognizes that this is his brother's puzzle, not his own. I will take that as a compliment. I just don't want to be a third wheel. I know where your evening would be going if I weren't here. His mouth holds a knowing smirk. Whether that is for his commentary or Iovis' is unclear. "The Cirque. Will you be touring in Europe? I think," his periwinkle eyes flicker suddenly, "... I think it's a very good idea. You should definitely do it. You can be the center of a drama and spectacle," he chuckles suddenly. "Yes, I can see this." Nodding, Iowerth glances to Iovis. Jealous? "Eh, well you know how Papa feels about clowns..."
"I do not understand all this about the clowns!" Iovis exclaims. "It's a noble profession!"
"Papa doesn't know I like men," Gwilym says a bit dryly. "Men who wear tights are obviously poofters. And poofters are..." He spreads his hands out widely, brandy dregs sloshing in his glass. He smirks. "How I've kept it a secret, I don't entirely know, but I like it that way."
He glances to his brother fondly. It's all your fault, you know. Back to Iovis. "Let them wear their little outfits. Not as if they've got anything I haven't seen," he says airily. "Or don't you trust me?" He laughs at that, smile flashing wickedly. No, you don't trust him. Neither does his brother, he's sure.
My evening will go there now or it will go there later. But if you would rather not see me like this - I do not entirely blame you. Will you be 'home' tomorrow? In your kingdom? You know how quickly time changes, between here and there. I ... want to spend some time with you. I think we have things we need to sort out. Not least of which is this - strangeness he feels, lately. But he does not know if he will speak of that.
"I will travel," Gwilym says airily. "I will be seen. I will be the center of attention. And then, I will take all that energy, and..." His gaze falls onto Iovis. He leaves the pause to be pregnant, an anticipatory silence which spreads with his smirk.
Iovis grins darkly, his shoulders rolling in a helpless shrug as his hands extend slightly before him. What am I to do but accept it? "Who am I to argue?" The Genoan laughs. No, he doesn't trust you -- not with other men. But then... he doesn't trust himself with the most mundane of tasks. "I will be sure to come see you in France and Italy, si? You will have to make sure I know where you are."
It has little to do with you and more to do with me. I'm happy for you, always, when you manage to scratch out a little something for yourself. I'm just... smarting a bit from last night, to be honest. And I didn't sleep well. He left today. Beyond that there is... quite obviously energy going back and forth between you. I .. don't really have a lot to say. He is handsome. He seems funny. I don't really have much to say otherwise. So long as you're happy. If you're looking for my approval, brawd, you have it.
Iowerth finishes his brandy, setting his glass aside. His departure is nearing. "Yes," he drawls, "...you will be hard to live with, I see it now." Iowerth smirks at Iovis. "Better you than me."
Iovis grins, untroubled by any trouble Gwilym could bring. In fact, he thrives on it. "You get a big head... you bring it to me, si?" He chuckles. "You in a costume. Ha! You will have to surprised me one night, amice," he flicks a dark gaze to his companion. "And visit me from a show..." And with that, his imagination runs wild. And he rakes Gwilym over the dark coals of his eyes in consideration.
Iowerth looks to his brother. It is an altogether different sort of look. I will be home tomorrow, yes. I am there everyday. Let me know when you are on the way and I will clear my schedule. I am...sorry, Gwilym. About last night. He pauses. We can talk about it tomorrow. For now, I think I will ... let the two of you ... be alone. I am the fifth wheel on a third wheel...
Iowerth rises after a moment and offers his hand to Iovis. "Iovis... I am sorry I cannot stay longer. We will have to take in a show, oes? Watch my brother make a spectacle of himself. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope I will have the chance to talk with you more..."
Iovis looks at Iowerth a moment, then takes his hand without rising. "Si, si, grazie. A pleasure likewise, si?" He smiles, shaking Iowerth's hand. "We will have to do this. When he's in Paris...."
"Agreed," Iowerth says warmly, smiling. The two part hands and he crosses over to his brother. His brother gets a hug. "I will see you soon, yes?" His hand rubs at his brother's shoulder for a moment, and he smiles a little. "Call me..."
You are my brother. More than my brother, you are my other self. I would be lost without you. His emotions are rising like a tide, and there is a glitter to his eyes as he looks to you. We will talk tomorrow. Oes. I will 'call'...
He slings his arm around Iowerth for a brief, tight hug, then releases him, stepping back. "I won't be dropping in without calling again," Gwilym drawls. "I try to learn my lessons." There is humour there, but his eyes are bright. So much emotion. It is rising in a choking fog in his brain. "I'll talk to you later, Io."
He turns, then, to his lover. "Back to Tours, or do you want to stay here for a bit?" He does not know what he wants. He is suddenly lost. He knows exactly where he is, and yet, he is lost.
Quietly, Iovis speaks: "I say we stay here. There is food. There is good brandy. There is a bed and a bath. I do not know why we would want to go to Tours." He rises, leaving his cannoli behind, and he comes over to join you. He turns, watching your brother's quiet departure.
"He seemed a little reserved, but it must be strange, si? Meeting a brother's male lover..." he offers. But he doesn't let it sit long. He is putting a hand to your upper arm, grinning. "But look at all of this food! You will be able to build your strength back after I have you for dinner." With a wink, Iovis gives your shoulder a massage.
He is smarter than he looks, far smarter than he acts. With a gentle pat, he returns to his seat. "Come, eat and we'll talk more about this Cirque idea..."
Posted by rowan at January 12, 2007 05:56 PM
