The night was - decadent, in a way. Food, and brandy, bed and bath, and a certain amount of time spent in quiet - and sometimes bombastic - conversation. It helped restore him a bit. Not entirely - but a little; he is decaying less at the center. But night passed into day, and eventually, Gwilym rose from his bed, rose from bathing, and made his way into shadow.
     Brawd? I am coming through. I'll wait for you in your chambers, and we can talk...
     Or whatever else comes to mind. Even after last night, drinking heavily is an enticing option. He makes his way along the shadow path, taking his time; you likely will have to disengage from whatever business or affairs of state before you and he can connect, anyway. A few skittering creatures are slain easily. Nothing large has been seen for a while.
     He straightens, sliding his knife into its sheath, then moves through from shadow to shadow, shadow to palace. Not in your bedroom after all, but in the hallway just outside. You are a king now. Even he has to be careful sometimes not to intrude where your guards might be scanning.

     There are guards in the palace and on the floor of the king to be sure. Most times they are not obvious. Most are not dressed as guards. In fact, some are even dressed as servants, blending in with the rest of the household staff, with a few more traditionally-garbed men positioned here and there.
     Though no day is quiet for the High King, when you called, he turned to his chamberlain and announced a need to reschedule the Council on Border Affairs. It should resume first thing in the morning.
     He has not had as much time to sit quietly and ruminate over the happenings of the last several days. In many ways, that is a good thing. Like his father, he is prone to take rumination to brooding, and brooding to a good solid sulk. His demeanor has been quieter, his servants and staff have noticed as much, but the king has much on his schedule and even more on his mind.
     You do not hear him, or feel him, say 'Come in', but rather hear the approach of footsteps in his usual marching stride. That stride has slowed of late, becoming more thoughtful. The result, surely, of so many conversations while on the way to other meetings. Such is the life of a senior statesman.
     He is clothed rather grandly, perhaps moreso than usual because his adorned skin serves as the focal point. A velvet tunic, midnight blue, has been specially made for him, designed to clasp at his throat and cover his shoulders and arms, but it parts unfastened over chest and torso. His physique as well as the vivid markings upon it are openly displayed. The tunic ends just past his hips, The pants are midnight leather. The captain's boots are beneath them, tucked and irrelevant. He does not wear a crown, that is for ceremonial moments only. His hair is wavy and thick and burnished bright. The short and jagged layers make it stand here and there, a nod to mortal postmodernism.
     Brawd...have you been waiting long? He gestures for you to go ahead and open the door to his chambers. It has been a long day, and you know how easy it is for me to lose track of time...

     Not so long as all that. The reply is as quick as him slipping to the doors, as he opens and slips inside ahead of you. Few would dare to precede you, but with his wicked smile, your brother does. If it had been - I would have bothered you.
     Gwilym turns and waits for you when you come into your own chambers, and though his smile had been there, now it is conspicuously absent. He is in black again - weathered black for shadows and fighting along the shadow road. The gaze which meets yours is stormy and serious all at once. "You're not taking proper care of yourself, but then, I suppose that goes with being a king as well. Shut the doors, oes?"
     Gwilym moves to drag your heavy chair forward for you to sink into, and he waits for you to do so. No, he is not going to sit until after you do. Maybe not even then.

     He starts to protest, but he knows it's going to be pointless. Even if you're wrong, you're right. After he closes the door, Iowerth reaches up to unclasp the tunic. It rolls off his shoulder sides and back without additional effort on his part. He merely catches the velvet fabric as it falls. With the slight upraise of a fiery eyebrow he looks at you as he takes a seat.
     "Am I about to get a massage?" He smirks, settling back in the chair. His hands fold against his bared and muscled stomach. "I have been making the attempt at least. Give me that much," Iowerth murmurs, his head tilting up so he can look at you standing behind him.
     "You saved me from a brutal meeting," he exhales. "I'm glad that's pushed to tomorrow. So," he segues, "... what's on your mind, brother mine?"

     "I'm about to pull off your clothes, anyway," Gwilym grins. He settles at your feet and begins pulling off your boots. "Restraint's your life when you're not with me, brawd. When you're with me, you should be able to let it all hang out." Literally, apparently.
     He sets your boots aside, then stands, shrugging out of his armoured jacket. "You are on my mind. How are you?" Emerald eyes meet yours, then look away as he finds a place for his armour. He moves behind your chair, giving your shoulders a squeeze, and then moves to find glasses and a bottle - wine this time, not brandy. "You've suffered a few wounds. I can feel it stinging from here. Be glad I didn't tell mum - imagine the fuss she'd make."
     Gwilym grins a little as he returns, holding out a glass to you. He wouldn't do that to you. And he is not unsympathetic. It is there, in his eyes. Right now, I need to be here. Whether or not you need me to be, or think you do. So I'm here.

     "I am adjusting," Iowerth murmurs. "Sometimes poorly, but I am adjusting." He looks at you as you begin to remove his shoes. "The other night was... unfortunate. I am sorry, Gwi. I know it was your secret too. Funny, I thought when I admitted it, I would feel better. I do not know what is troubling me. Part of it is Tiernan," he notes. "It hit me the other day when you were both here... that both of you can come and go as you please," his mouth twists a sardonic smile. "He can go off to god knows where, and you can join the circus." He chuckles. Literally, even. "And I do not regret my position," he focuses on you, wanting to make sure you hear that, "...but the point was driven home to me. Rather suddenly. Playtime is over," Iowerth whispers.
     Iowerth reaches out to take the glass, sipping at the wine. "I'm glad you're here," he says, glancing to you and then back into his glass. "I cannot seem to get out of the funk I have been in. I don't know what good being naked would do me." He is still not in the mood. And that's perhaps the most troubling thing of all. Where has his libido gone, long time ago? Has it gone picking flowers with all the young girls, picking flowers every one? Iowerth exhales. "I'm trying to get excited about this adventure I'm on. I'm just having trouble." Iowerth takes another swallow of wine. "I hope Iovis did not take my quick visit as some sort of disapproval. Not that I think such would trouble him, mind you. I ...just haven't been in the mood for company. I should have postponed it." His skin flushes suddenly. It is not a blush. It is a wave of emotion. Elbow on the arm of the chair, he rests his head in his hand a moment, his fingers rubbing his forehead.

     "I would not have your throne for anything." Gwilym says it evenly, but there is a flat tone to his voice. "I am not jealous, brawd. I ... could not do what you do. I do not have your vision, your energy."
     He sighs, a hand dropping to your head, rubbing through your hair, and he swallows wine in a gulp. Then he chuckles a little. "No, he didn't think you disapproved. He thought it was just odd for you, seeing your brother with a male lover. I - decided not to set him straight on that." One eye closes in a wink. "More like the other way around for us, oes?"
     He drops to sit on the other arm of your chair, looking down at you without his smile; it's gone somewhere to hide. He looks at you with grave sympathy instead, then pats your hand. "You're having to put aside things which you're not sure of. They're things you mostly didn't make use of when you had the chance, and if the opportunity were still there, you wouldn't really make use of it that much now; but things have changed. It is no longer so much of an option. Neither of us like being cornered, Io. I ... do not blame you."
     He says it, then repeats it. "I do not blame you, brawd. For how you feel or for your slip. Oes, it's something I wish you hadn't done; the more people who know of a secret, the more chances for it to get out somewhere else. But it's done." Gwilym shrugs, his hand patting your shoulder. "No point in worrying about it now. You went through a little bit of hell the other night, oes? I don't think there's any point in punishing you for it more than you've already gone through. I worry about you, you know."

     He looks at you, amusement nesting in the various nooks and crannies of his face like rockgulls when you mention Iovis. "He seems interesting. Certainly lively. I can see why he intrigues you." But he's not the reason you're here, and he's not the reason I'm feeling this way. Resting his head on the back of the chair, Iowerth rolls his head to look at you. His hand rests on your thigh, fingers lingering there. "Maybe that is it. I have been free until the past month. Now, I am not. But I don't want to think of it as a prison," he protests suddenly, softly. "It negates the whole point of it. I'm just going to have to make it less confining. Right now," his eyes widen a touch, "...It's running me, I'm not running It."
     There is a twitch of a frown that appears at his mouth. "It wasn't pleasant. I don't know why we fight like we do," he sighs. "It's been this way for years now. And," his emotion suddenly finds an expression, "...I did not need to hear about how he spends his time. I don't want to know about the other men. I don't want to even know they exist." He chuckles a little. "I want Tiernan to do me the honor of letting me believe there is no one else."
     With an exhale, Iowerth shakes his head. "Right now, all I can think of is him having wild sex in the bath with a mer-man. I want to blow my own head off just so I can get some rest." He rolls his periwinkle eyes at himself and takes a swallow of the wine. "I'm nothing but complaints today," Iowerth murmurs. "Surely you have some place more exciting to be...I can't believe you're really going to join the circus," he says suddenly.
     The only refuge from his thoughts is to think of you, to talk about things that involve you instead of him.

     "It's new," Gwilym observes. "And you are very bad at delegating, brawd. You think in your heart of hearts that if the job is to get done properly, it needs to have your fingerprints all over it; so that even when you do delegate, you do not do so completely. And, of course, with its newness, you don't yet know the full capacity of your people; you don't know how much to trust them with, how much to hold onto. So you hold more than you should. If I were you, I'd ask mum if you can borrow some of her advisors. They did a bang-up job for her, after all, and you can find out from them, at least, who's competent and who isn't, even if nothing else."
     He shoves you over - make room. The chair isn't really big enough for the two of you, but he will make it work. "Tiernan loves you," Gwilym says flatly. "Other men? May as well be jealous of his hand. I've seen how he looks at you. I wish I could reconcile myself to something like that. I," he sighs, "do get to feeling it, sometimes, brawd. Even if most of the time I'd deny it til I'm blue in the face. I don't know what I need. I'm sick, or sommat."
     He shrugs, sprawling on you and against you, listening moodily to the way the chair squeaks and groans in its protests at the overloading of bodies. "I will be joining the circus to find something. You have your wyrd, brawd, and I have mine. In my case, I need to flirt with death - I do it all the time. Even with Iovis, oes, that is part of it. The noise in my head gets bad and there is nothing else for it but to let it bleed out - whatever way I can. We'll see how this works."
     It is more honesty than he would normally give in a dozen years. He must be sick, yes. A glimmer of dark humour appears in his eyes at the thought, and he places his hand over yours, giving it a squeeze. "Don't be jealous of me," he whispers. "I wouldn't wish this on you, Io. I can handle it - most of the time, I can handle it - but I wrestle with it constantly, try to keep it from spinning out of control. I feel always hungry except in rare moments, never quite warm enough except at the middle of the bonfire. Da seems to understand it - but I don't."

     The chair's not the only one groaning in complaint. As he's sprawled on, your twin makes the face he's always made when you've shoved him around in the crib, bed or, now, chair. His nose wrinkles and he grunts then smirks with a roll of his eyes. But he holds you, his arms wrapping around you, and he leans against you, both to take and to give comfort.
     "I wish I could help you," he says quietly. "I'm not jealous of you. I know you have your own battles. And even though you're free, you have your own cages." His arms hold you and he exhales near your ear. "Maybe he was the same way," Iowerth offers. "A live wire, always on the bleeding razor's edge. Needing to feel life so much he constantly puts his own in jeopardy. I do not know, brawd. I wish I had the answers you're seeking. I wish I had the answers Tiernan's seeking for that matter."
     He is quiet for a few moments after you go on about how Tiernan feels. "I know he does. I just can't shake thinking that... with me being so busy and soon to be married, that he's going to find someone who can give him more of their time. He certainly deserves that. I just... wouldn't be happy without him. And I can't keep him or you under lock and key," he drawls, "...so I'll just have to chance it like everyone else." He smirks. "His hand. Really. I don't think he has to resort to that. I'm sure he finds plenty of assistance." He is quiet a moment, then sighs. "I shouldn't talk like that. I'm still upset."
     He hugs you slightly again and rests his head against your own. "I know. I have very good advisors. I've plucked them from her kingdom, father's and your father's for that matter. And they are running a fair portion of the day to day, thank god. I just... haven't quite settled yet. I suppose it's a bit much to ask. I've been in the big chair for less than two months," he reminds himself. "I'm not supposed to be settled. I just want to try to ...enjoy it more. I used to relish challenges like this. I would be... turned on by it, you know? Maybe I'll feel better after the first chariot races and celebratory orgies..." he chuckles.

     "No one has any answers for anyone else. Not even for themselves." Gwilym sighs, closing his eyes as he rests against you. "I don't expect help, brawd. You help more than you know, just by being who you are, where you are. You are a lifeline, oes? Even if you don't see it in yourself. You're stable. I'm not."
     His hand lifts to your head again, rubbing against your scalp. "I don't think he's going to leave you. If he didn't have an issue with us rolling around in a bed together, then you're already a thousand times better off than either of us could anticipate. He loves you, but he has his own unsettled things, hasn't he? I think he hasn't figured out who he is yet." He looks at you, twisting to face you squarely. "He was the son of a wicked witch, a prince, and that went away. And he's carved out an uneasy truce within himself to be who he is now - and now that is changing again. He's never had a good grasp on who he is - I can sympathize with that," he half-chuckles. "But if he figures that out ... maybe you two will fight less. Have less of this concern."
     "But I do think he knows he wants to be with you. If he were trying to reinvent himself, he could have decided to do it without you; it's easier when you don't have emotional ties," Gwilym continues. And this he speaks of from experience. "You can be who or what you need to be in the moment, without considering someone else's feelings. So - it won't make you stop worrying, I know, but it's something for you to chew on."
     He slides down until he is sitting on the floor, leaning up against your legs. "It's no longer optional. Now it's a job, not a challenge you choose for yourself. You need a harem, brawd. Celebrations, oes. Let me know when the orgies will be," he smirks. "That is the only thing about not being king that I regret. It is always tempting, to me, to just - let it all go, let my energies be unleashed onto the unsuspecting world around me. But it's hardly cricket, is it?"

     "It's a good deal more goddamned interesting than cricket," Iowerth chuckles. "I will let you know. I'm expecting there will be a great deal of nudity come the summer. You might want to be around for that." He nods to what you say of Tiernan, his hand reaching down to move idly in your hair. "I can sympathize too, in so much as I have watched you deal with similar issues," Iowerth notes. "For whatever reason, I've always had conviction, in the moment, of who I was. I don't know where that comes from. Perhaps da."
     He sets aside that line of questioning, his fingers lightly tugging your hair. He can't help himself. "I don't want a harem. I don't have the energy for a harem. As it is my lover left today and I didn't even have the energy to lie back and let him please me. I've had no mind for pleasure lately. That worries me a bit. But then," he exhales, "I have been meeting with a virginal bride to be until recently." His mouth twists slightly. "I don't know, Gwi. I guess I'm just a little overwhelmed. And a little tired. Because of all of the things you've mentioned. I appreciate your advice, by the way. I do not know what you tell yourself, but perhaps you should tell yourself some of the things you tell me. Your advice to me has always been good."
     Normally, the sexual energy is emanating from the surface of his skin like body heat. None of that is present. In truth it hasn't been present since he was crowned. He's fairly sure that's not coincidental. Iowerth sighs, his hand gently moving through your hair again. "He's more curious than anything," Iowerth notes quietly. "I don't know. Maybe he already has someone else... and that's why it didn't bother him." He smirks at himself. "Don't even acknowledge that. I knew it was shite the moment I said it."
     For several moments he is quiet, and then you hear him take a breath. Preparation for speaking, and for calming. "It will get better. I will relax. I will appoint more staff, which will allow me to focus more on what I want to do, build, create. And I'll feel rejuvenated. Right now, I'm just tired, I think. And you know how I get when I get tired and cranky. When you want to come and just let it all go... come here," he whispers. "I can arrange something for you with willing charioteers and other select individuals. At least I would know you'd be in a friendly environment. I can make you king for a day," he grins. "You can have wild parties and I can get some sleep."

     "Pfft. I'm full of shite," Gwilym snorts. "Don't pay me the slightest attention or you'll have me die screaming." He chuckles, and he tips his head back, into the grasp of your hand, his eyes closed. "Maybe he's curious because he's wondering a bit about orgies himself," he drolls. "Easier to get started on the notion in friendly company, oes?"
     He doesn't let the idea rest in your head too long; he's incurious, himself, settled where he is. "We seem both to run out of energy at the same time," Gwilym murmurs. "Maybe it is some - mystic ebbing of the tides. I don't know. Here we are, though. You know I'm here if you need my help, right?" He glances up, then laughs.
     "Brawd, brawd ... the last thing I should do is just let my energies go. I don't know what I'm doing; you'd have half your kingdom in flames while I fiddle the flames higher still." Gwilym chuckles, then moves to pull himself with a groan up to his feet. He holds his hands out to you, eyes gleaming. "I can sit in for you for parties if you insist, but - no blank checks, oes? I will ... find a way. It is part of why I am joining the circus. It will put me in different situations. I will meet different people. Maybe I will find some answers. And if not? I can still come back here and make you stop work long enough to pay attention to me, oes?"
     He bends, his hands on your shoulders, and he kisses your forehead with a soft, open-mouthed kiss. "Come on. You canceled everything for what is left of the day. I am going to take you out."

     "Maybe we're having a growth spurt," he adds quietly. He smiles a little at that. Isn't that how the two of you were when you were children? Run run run, crash. Be an inch taller in the morning. "We both hold ourselves in check, and we wonder why we go crazy," he mulls. "But I am glad you are going to get out and see the world. You should. You should have adventure, Gwilym. And, of course, the door is always open for you, you will always have your rooms here waiting for you."
     Iowerth sighs, and makes a whine in his throat. "I don't want to go out," he protests. He knows it's in vain as much as you. He's already giving you his hand to pull him up. There's no arguing with you, even if you both are at a low tide. His exhalation comes with resignation.
     "No brothels," your brother-king insists. "No harems. Nothing like that. I am just not in the mood. And no place overly loud," another condition! Lips twisting, Iowerth is fairly sure you're going to ignore him.
     "Where are we going? I need to change clothes if we're heading to someplace exotic. Or that requires shirts for service..."

     "Maybe. Emotional growth rather than physical. I wanted to stay young forever, but it seems parts of me, at least, are in rebellion." Gwilym makes a face. "I always have adventures. Usually, I just do not remember them the next morning."
     There is no arguing with him, no, and he grins as he sees you accepting it. He pulls on your hands, expert fingers circling to grab your wrists. "We won't go dancing," he promises. "I have the perfect place in mind. Jeans. T-shirts. Maybe a jacket - it might be cold."
     Gwilym is quiet for a moment, looking at you broodingly, and then, he turns away, reaching for his jacket. Armour becomes something more ordinary; leathers and silks become denim and cotton and wool, until he is in sneakers and jeans, t-shirt and sweater, the copy of Davydd's battlescarred bomber jacket on his back. "We're going to Davy's, brawd. What other place'll let us drink for our favorite price?"

     Iowerth smiles, and suddenly he's in his favorite pair of jeans, a faded BJD shirt hugging his frame, with a pinstriped blazer and a sea-foam green scarf. His hair remains the same, choppily cut and standing up here and there. "You know, I could do with a pint on the house. I could do with several pints on the house. I feel like getting drunk. Do you know how long it's been since I've over-indulged?"
     An eyebrow lifts to the thought of an emotional growth spurt. He's not sure he likes it either, but he... like you... is powerless to halt adulthood. Believe you, he's tried.
     A hand comes out, patting your shoulder, and then his arm's coming around your shoulder. "Good on you," he whispers. "We'll raise a pint to your genius."
     The suggestion was a tonic to his heart. He perks up a bit at the prospects of being normal for a night, being drunk for a night, being anonymous for a night. A drink in the hand and he can forget about what Tiernan may or may not be doing, or with whom.

     "On the house," Gwilym grins a little, his arm around your waist. "You can get drunk, oes - I'll watch. Don't know if I'll match you, it'll depend on how well Llew's pulling them." Or if his da's taking a turn behind the bar tonight, for old time's sake. The possibility is there. He isn't sure what he'll do or say then. He just doesn't know.
     He tugs you with him, from your palace in this realm strange to mortals, through into shadow; from shadow, to shadow, and from shadow, to solid earth once again. Only the earth under your feet belongs instead to London.
     "So I was thinking," Gwilym says casually as he releases your waist, moving towards the mouth of the alley behind Davy's, "that my companion who you've met might make a good hunter. You should keep it in mind, brawd, for future reference."

     "Interesting thought. Do you think he would give up his earthly possessions for such a life? He is a thief. Is he much of a Hunter? Certainly, those of the Hunt are of various professions. I understood at one point there was a cobbler and a banker, if you can imagine." Iowerth follows you to the now gated entrance to the alley -- the gate a late addition, an idea of Davydd's to keep the riffraff (presumably not his children included) out of the alley. The triumph and the Jaguar are squeezed in back there.
     That both are here is not an indication, however, that either of their owners are present.
     "Have you and he already talked about it? I am sorry I was not really in the mood to talk, to him or anyone. I did not have enough time to get a feel for him. Maybe we can arrange for a ...follow-up sometime. I don't know. I did not feel a connection there. But," he makes a face at himself, a dismissal of any concern, "... I was distracted by my own drama..."

     "Probably not," Gwilym concedes, with a low and somewhat rough chuckle. He shakes his head, raking a hand back through his hair as he slides through the alley and along to the door. "I can't see him giving things up at this point. Maybe not ever; who knows? But - being a thief, I can't imagine wanting to narrow down my options. I imagine he'd feel the same."
     The door is opened, held for you - a gesture of respect for you as a king, maybe, or just so that if any of the family are there, they'll see you first - and then he follows in behind you. He is older than I am. He would kill me if I told you how much older. There is a soundless chuckle from your brother, his hand prodding you forward lightly. And he is as jealous of temperament as you are... more, really, even than you. I doubt there is much of a connection, unless you are both feeling jealous at the same time, or brooding at the same time. He is a thief. But I like him.

     He seems to have a sense of humor. He has... a lot of energy. There was. Definitely secretive. Intelligent, but he keeps a lot of himself in subterfuge. Iowerth looks at you. Older than you. "Older or younger than Ramanthus? You don't have to elaborate," his mouth quirks upward just slightly at the corners. "And I'm not that prone to jealousy," it is a feeble protestation. He doesn't give it much support, knowing he's on bad footing when it comes to that.
     That's what's most important. That you like him. He seems interesting. But we only exchanged small talk. I suppose then, if he is so jealous, you won't be making the same mistake I made and divulging anything about us to him. Duw, I can't believe I did that...
     Both of you have keys to Davy's, if for nothing else than to make use of the apartments if you find the need. Iowerth opens the door for you. Light from the backroom and offices spills into the alley. There are a couple of the girls who are getting ready for their shift. They smile at the two of you. "...'Lo, lads," says Cerys, a lovely bit of Cardiff that she is. "It's crackin' out there...you're just in time." She winks, sweeping her auburn hair upward and twisting it into two pigtails. For a moment, Iowerth regrets insisting on the 'No Harem' policy.
     "Who's at the pulls tonight?"
     "Oh, Llew's runnin' it tonight. Or he is right now. I hear The Boss," Rhodri, "...may be making an appearance. But sometimes he just says that to keep us all on our toes."

     Ha. He doesn't know about Ramanthus, by the way. Nor about you. He knows I've had other - male - lovers. He is jealous of them on principle. Women, less so, because they are women. But I don't know how he'd react if I were to come over smelling like a woman. He can smell as well as papa can hear, it seems.
     Gwilym grins a little as you make your way in, following you. "Younger. Definitely younger. Just not young." He peers over your shoulder, still grinning. I can't believe you did that, either, he tells you humorously, and I was there for some of the fallout. I didn't know your boy could yell. Always acts like he wouldn't say boo to a mouse, if it came to it. But he got over it, seems as if.
     Cerys gets a glimmering smile and a decidedly interested look, emerald eyes raking her up and down. "Cracking, is it? We're not going to be pushed into working for a living, are we?" Gwilym gives her that smile so like his da's. "Ah, well, if the Boss turns up, we'll scuttle out the back way like rats. No point making unfair amounts of work for you when he's keeping an eye on the books. Can we get ourselves a table? Anyone performing tonight?"

     "The owner's booth is still open," that's Davydd's booth. "You're welcome to it until the old man shows, if he shows. He makes us keep it open now," Cerys says incredulously, "...with a Reserved sign on't, if you can believe that." She rolls her eyes and laughs, chucking her purse in her locker and locking it. She ties a knot in her already snug Davy's Girl t-shirt, making it even more telling. On the back of the black shirt is the picture of a pirate Black Jack Davy with a buxom wench on his knee. "As for music, it's supposed to be Fight Song Friday. But we never know. Last couple of weeks there've been headliners here, big names in the folk scene."
     Iowerth sputters a laugh. I should buy one of those shirts for mum. Remind me...
     With a wink and a wave, Cerys puts her back to the door. She blows a kiss to you both. "I'm late," she coos and bounces her way into the main room. Iowerth stares after her a moment. "I like her. She's very.... perky..." A few thoughts ignite on the air around them but he doesn't elaborate. You have a like mind; he doesn't need to paint a picture. Cerys does a good enough job at that as it is.
     Heading for the door after her, Iowerth glances to you, his mouth twisting sardonically. I have heard him yell before, just...never that loudly while kicking and throwing things. But... yes... he got over it well enough. That's what's worrying me. It seems a bit too easy. But he gestures with his hands I'm not going to dwell on it. I am here to have fun and drink...
     Iowerth opens the door and heads into Davy's proper. The bar is standing room only. There's no music playing but for the CDs chosen by staff. There are tvs going, all sorts of humanity packed in. The bar is full, the tables are full, the booths are nearly full. There's one or two besides the one you both head for -- Davydd's booth, that bit of prime bar real estate. Two pints are already being pulled for you as you're seen. Llew gives you both a nod and a smile. "Hey gents!" he calls out.
     However he reacts, I'm sure you'll enjoy it. The recipient of his jealous explosion might not, but I'm sure you would. You'll have to figure out how many showers it takes to... clear away the evidence...

     What makes you think she hasn't got one already? But oes, if she doesn't - perfect. Can't wait to see the Old Man's face. Gwilym smirks as he waggles fingers at Cerys' back - but it isn't her back he's staring at, no. His eyes have dropped lower. "Nos dda, and make sure they tip big," he calls with a smirk. "She is all of that - perky, I mean. And, ah - friendly. Far be it for me to avoid making new friends, oes?"
     He follows you into the main room, his own mouth twisting. He probably didn't want to leave for however long with it hanging on the air. But oes, we won't talk about it more. Much. He knows you, and he knows himself. You are both the same; picking at the scabs until they ooze fresh blood. A few drinks will help more than any amount of talking.
     "Hoy, Llew," Gwilym calls easily, heading to the other side of the booth from you. He grins widely as he looks around at the masses of humanity. He'll see how the night goes. I might go home with someone, I might not. I might just pick a fight with someone and see if I can avoid getting my nose broken - outdoors of here, though, if so; mum would go spare. At least it's not a folk night, mum might turn up for that. Pretending she isn't mum is harder sometimes than others.
     He drops heavily into the booth, then pulls himself to sit upright, leaning his elbows on the table with a glitter of his eyes. Sod showers. I'll just get you to fill my bathtub with brandy and take a quick dip in that. The fox throws off the scent by running through the stinkweed, oes?

     He'd suggest the two of you test that theory -- you know how he likes experiments -- but as you mention the other possibilities the night holds, Iowerth smirks. He chuckles at himself, happy to take the Guinness when it's carried over by Cath. While not quite as perky as Cerys, she's a lovely girl. "Here you are, lads," she smiles as she bends with the tray, setting the Guinness down carefully. "Llew says there's more where this comes from. Just give him a wave and he'll send one of us over. Do you want anything to eat?"
     "Not for me, diolch. The Guinness'll do," Iowerth tells her, leaning back in the booth. He looks over the overwhelming amount of people in the bar. Men, women, boys and girls. It's a cross section of London working class, technology class and a high-tone upwardly mobile set, some of whom are on their mobiles come to mention it.
     Iowerth takes a swallow of the Guinness, His tongue peeks out, swiping away the flavored foam. "If I weren't already taken, I'd think of queening her straight off." He cackles a bit, then rolls his eyes at himself. She'd make for a glum queen, to be sure. But a saucy one.
     Sea-foam and periwinkle eyes lift to you and your brother nods. If you see something you fancy, go on. You're not my babysitter or my nurse. No sense us both being broody and glum. I bet Cerys would be willing... and fun. Course, then you have to wonder if either of our fathers thought the same thing. He smirks suddenly. That's an appetizing thought, isn't it.
     He won't be going home with anyone tonight. He's not in the mood to let himself enjoy such things. Not with he and Tiernan fighting right before what could be a prolonged absence. So... your companion, he gets back to Iovis. A thief... an older man... what else are you willing to tell me about him?

     "I'll have a pickled veg if you've got it," Gwilym tells Cath easily. She gets a quick up-and-down, but when it comes to girls, he likes the bouncing tickle-me sort more. "Stick to the one you've got, you're in enough trouble and over your head as it is." He hasn't met her; but he's heard rumors. Just a few, but does he really need to hear them all?
     Your brother gives you a grin and takes up his Guinness, taking a swig and then wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. Pah. So much for giving me my head. No, brawd, I'm not in the mood for it. I'm not sure even a random orgy would snap me out of this. If I were a girl, I'd want to cuddle a pillow and cry for no reason at all; as it is, all I want is a beer, and that, thank Llew, I've got.
     He grins at you over the table, then slouches back, closing his eyes. There is that. I'm not keen on sharing with da or papa. If I am going to be incestuous, I will just let you know, and skip the middle woman. As for my ... companion ... how much do you want to know? Are you sure you want me to shock you like that?

     "Pickled veg, right away. Let me or Penelope or Cerys know if you want anything else. We're splitting the bar into regions, it's sae busy!" She dashes off with your order, heading for the kitchen on the other side of the bar.
     Iowerth doesn't bother to address the meaningless. He looks at you, his eyes that mixture of lavender-blue and seafoam green. "He seems important to you," your brother says aloud, though softly. It'd look odd if you two were just sitting across from one another not saying anything. Folks might think you were cops. "So... tell me what you're comfortable telling me..." He shrugs a little.
     "He's jealous, possessive, smart, a thief, likes cannoli. That's about all I know. Oh, and that he's old," he chuckles. That's not a whole lot. Not even a whole picture. Iowerth sits back with his beer, all ears.
     It's not even that he's punishing himself. He is genuinely interested in the one who's occupying your time these days. "What's he do that keeps him in Tours? He sounds as if he's not partial to it. Why isn't he in Italy, for example?"

     "I don't know how I feel about him." Gwilym answers you bluntly, looking at the glass, the way a bit of foam tries to spill over the lip. "There is a draw. He gives me something which right now, I need to get from somewhere - if he weren't there, I don't know where I'd be looking for it, or from who. He is," he almost smiles, "safer than some of the choices I could have."
     If you only knew. But he is not quite sure that he should tell you about Grunt, or what goes on there. Still, he may - he may, in time. Give him another pint or two. He is not entirely natural. He does not know everything there is to know about me, and I do not know everything there is to know about him. It - ironically - keeps us both safe, from each other, and the people we know. He is a vampire, brawd.
     There. One hard truth out. You know - but he has told noone else. Not even his own father. Gwilym pulls at his Guinness - and it's finished off, that fast. "His business keeps him in Tours, and that's good enough for me. I wouldn't go to Tours if it weren't for him, duw knows."

     And though it's a crowded night in Davy's and the din is wild as a bacchanal, between you, on this table, you could hear a pin drop. There are a thousand things he could say. They can be seen at the brim of his eyes. But the only thing that makes it out, perhaps the only thing that matters is: Is he good to you? Does he hurt you? For what could one say if one found out one's brother was dating the equivalent of Jack the Ripper. He kills everyone else, but is he okay with you?
     I just need to know. The rest... the rest is a matter of personal preference, really. I just need to know that you're okay with him. And I want you to be honest, not protective. Of him, of me. Iowerth moves his glass to the side, leaning in with his hands folded on the table. I will say I ...don't know much about them. Only their reputations. I admit to my ignorance. I just need to know that he is good to you when you are with him.
     His green and periwinkle eyes flash with protective lavender. An older brother's concern. He hopes you forgive him for it.
     There is a short snort of laughter and a shake of his head as some of that concern melts away. "Safer than some of your other choices. That is true, knowing you."

     He could have killed me a hundred times already. More, really. But ... he does not want to. What else can one really ask for, hope for, when dealing with a vampire? Gwilym shrugs a little, looking at his emptied glass. He should have taken his time with it. Ah, well. He'll get more. He raises a hand in signal.
     He doesn't hurt me except in ways I want. That is probably not something you wanted to know - but he is being honest with you, as honest as he can bear and maybe a little more. There is the tickle of it in his blood, working faster than the beer, like nitrogen building up in a diver's blood as the oxygen is depleted. I found him on the shadow road and at first, I thought he was something ... someone ... other than what and who he is. You know how it is; I try to keep the paths clear of true evil, true chaos. But he was not that. He was...
     "Passing through." Gwilym picks up where he'd been silent, lips curving into an ironic twist of a smile. "He had no idea what sort of things are there. So we ended up playing cat and mouse, back and forth, finally passed messages agreeing to meet somewhere. Didn't even fully introduce ourselves then. And there was something - I don't know, just a spark. Interest. He was interesting to me, me to him. Someone who could give a bit of a challenge, oes? So we kept up playing tag. Gave each other hints - clues."
     And then things went to hell. Not quite literally - but close. Gwilym chuckles, a quiet sound that ends in a sigh. "You know how it is when you wake up at three in the morning with a craving for ice cream and all the shops are closed and the gas stations which might have them never have the flavors you like? He became the itch in the middle of my back that I couldn't quite reach. I was attracted to him. And you can't exactly say under those circumstances, pardon, fancy a quick shag. Besides," his grin twists into being again, "I figured he was only into women. I mean... he is Italian."
     Quiet words, because while there's the need to speak out loud, he's not keen on being overheard. He's kept his secrets well; you are the only one who he tells these things to, it seems. The only one to whom speaking is possible. So I saw him fucking a whore and I got depressed. And I went where I always go when I get depressed. I'm not sure you want to know where that is, brawd.

     His mouth twists and he shakes his head. It's not disapproval. There are things he wants to know and things he doesn't want to know. Sitting back, he raises his own hand. Cerys is already on the way with two new pints. She's good for that. "I'm sure there are plenty of Italian men who are not, but I understand what you mean. And... no," he grins, a touch of red to his cheeks and ears, "... I don't really want to know where you go when you get depressed. I'm not sure I can handle it."
     With that regal poise he has had since he was six, your brother sits across from you looking suddenly proper. He does that so well. "I am sure there is a den of iniquity somewhere in this city with your name on a V-I-P door." Iowerth's mouth spreads in a wide and easy smile. He can imagine it well enough without having it drawn out for him in graphic detail.
     The Guinness arrives without too much fanfare. She's busy and you're in the middle of things. Iowerth finishes off his first as his second continues to rest. His hand cradles the second and he watches the head take shape. His eyes, that sea-foam and periwinkle gaze, lifts to you. He walks the roads you walk. I can see the attraction. Besides the physical, that is. You always have needed to feel the edge of the razor, the edge of the world, the edge of the universe. You aren't much of a morning person anyway. And not so unusual in comparison. He begins ticking off all the components that comprise the silver lining.
     Sipping at his second pint, you see him darken slightly again. What's it like... with him... has he made an aperitif of you?

     Your mouth is a mirror image of his. No, it's not really funny - but what is there to do but laugh? "I'll spare you, then," Gwilym tells you lightly, settling his new Guinness in between his hands. "Though 'where' is a large part of what happened next." His eyes meet yours briefly, then look away. Into the foam atop his beer, as if it had some darkness in it in which he could crowd himself.
     To circle around it is difficult to do and still let you understand what happened. Let us say that he ... approached me ... and I refused to believe that it was him. I thought shadows and illusions had caught up to me. I was not prepared. So I fled to the roads I know well. He tried to follow me, and ran into some of the beasts of Hell.
     He draws a fingertip lightly through the head on the pint, crisscrossing into an x. He was mauled by them - fairly savagely. That ... did not have the hallmarks of a trap, so I doubled back and fought them off, then dragged him back to his apartment in Tours to get him patched up. It's good that he is a vampire. If he were not, he'd be in a coffin now for certes.
     There is little guilt about it at the moment. It happened. It is one of the risks of the road, and one which he does not take on any guilt for, for once. Though perhaps he believes himself to have expiated the debt, by now, thief that he is. "We walk similar paths. There's overlap. But ... oes ... he is something unknown. Unfamiliar. And he seems to see through me - not all the time, but at moments. More than I expect."
     Gwilym chuckles, watching your complexion darken. What exactly are you asking, brawd? Has he tasted my blood? Oes; I let him. The first time, when he was so badly hurt. If it would take my blood for him to get better, well, as long as he left enough for me, why not? It is not as if I cannot make more, as long as I am alive. For the rest - tell me what you want to know, and I'll answer.

     "Nevermind," Iowerth says, sitting back with his pint. He takes a swallow of it and then sets it before him. "It's none of my business. So long as you're ... interested, having fun," he won't say 'happy' for fear you'll think he thinks it's a relationship and go running for the hills, Your brother shrugs. "What else matters?"
     You and a vampire. Tiernan and a mer-man. Shaking his head, Iowerth chuckles quietly. He finishes a good half of his pint in a single swallow. I suppose it's never boring. If he were his father, right about now he would start feeling intimidated. Both of his lovers off with fantastical, imaginary (yet real) beings, doing the unimaginable but thoroughly enjoyable. And while it may cross the transom of Iowerth's mind, he does not dwell on it. I suppose I ought to go and find myself a mermaid or something equivalent so all three of us will have something to talk about.
     He gives his body to the booth as your pickled veg finally arrives. "Sorry, love," Penelope says -- she's the senior waitress of the crew at a ripe old age of 27. She is all Welsh valley girl, with her dark hair and her dark eyes. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting. Give Llew a signal if you want anything else. He'll flag one of us down. It's Irish in here tonight," crazy, she means to say.
     A vampire. That should answer your question earlier about The Hunt. It's not a particularly vampire-friendly group, in general. Though, you're the heir to that more than I. They may work for me, eventually, if I gain their trust, but you understand them. Perhaps Jupiter's work in Tours does not have to be permanent. Perhaps there would be a way for him to go elsewhere.

     "It is your business as much as it is anyone's. You're my brother." Gwilym curls his lip at you. And my lover, and high king. If it is not your business, whose business is it? I'd really rather you find out about it this way than some other way - and better you find out than mum and da and papa. Holy sweet lord, can you just imagine? His eyes widen at the thought. I try to keep the rest of the family out of my life, you know. Da's the only one I'd halfway tell things too, but it feels as if we speak different languages, somehow.
     He kicks you lightly under the table, leaning back again and taking a long swallow of Guinness. He sets it down to give Penelope a quick grin as she arrives with his pickles. "As long as you're surviving," he drawls, "it's all good, oes? Good tips, I hope. Let us know if anyone acts out of line, we'll kick their arses." Generous of him, promising your fists along with his own. But that is how he usually gets you into trouble, isn't it?
     Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know if he and the Hunt would be ... sympathetic to one another. But if nothing else, brawd, in a sense of the word, he has my scent. If anything ever happens where it becomes necessary - you can use him to find me. I don't know what will happen. The pieces move faster than I can keep track of - I don't see the future so much as I vibrate with instinct, watching the potential shape of things. But I try to put the pieces down that I have where I can, to be ready for whatever might happen. And ... it might happen that some day you will need him to do that. If I didn't think the possibility were there, I would not mention it.
     Emerald eyes meet your periwinkle gaze for a moment. There is awareness in them. For all that he acts the fool, the clown, the braggart, there is an acknowledgment of darker things in his eyes, of possibilities and galaxies that could spin out of control. "I don't know what I'll be doing," Gwilym says softly. "I can make no promises, oes? But - no matter what else - I want you to know where my loyalties lie. I want you to have the keys in case something happens, Io."
     Even if it means sabotaging himself in future. He does not tell his vampiric lover this; it is you he tells, hints, warns. And then he settles back. "There are things I still need to learn. About myself, about who and what I am, what I can do - what I should do. Don't mistake me; le Cirque should be fun," he gives you a quick grin, "but ... I am hoping that its wandering road will lead me to wherever it is I need to go next. 'When the student is ready, the teacher will appear', they say, oes? It is how I have done things. It has worked for me so far. But enough about me..."

     Penelope flashes a wink but can't loiter around and visit. She's heading to the next group of tables. Iowerth barely noticed her arrival, let alone her departure. He narrows his eyes at you, inclining his head as you speak of scents, of usefulness. What do I need to know, in order to have these... keys? Something about him? Where he lives?
     "Your loyalty could never be in doubt," he says quietly, leaning forward as he cradles the pint of Guinness. "I don't need an Italian Jupiter as any sort of insurance policy for that, Gwilym. You of all people should know you do not need to do ensure anything of the kind to me."
     He is perplexed by your meaning -- this is quite clear. He stares at you as if you are speaking a strange language. Perhaps it is only his mood. He himself is not sure. "I hope it is fun, I'm sure it will be. The rest, oes, you will have to see what the universe hands you. You have asked your question. It will answer you."
     I will keep what you say about Iovis in mind. I will hope in the meantime that I do not have to utilize him.

     "I don't know." Gwilym smiles at you. It is not entirely a happy smile, but it is a smile. "I tell you what I can. We'll see what happens."
     He chuckles suddenly, taking a lengthy pull at his pint, then shakes his head. Just - if you ever need to find me, and you can't. He of all people may be able to, oes? Not because of sharing a bed with him, but because of who he is - what he is. He can walk the roads I walk, Io. He can smell my scent from a block away. If you need a bloodhound... use the one familiar with the terrain and the quarry. That's all I can say.
     He reaches across the table, gripping your wrist tightly for a moment; then he releases again, leaning back. "I will make it be fun. Not now, of course, right now I'm just not in the mood for fun. Stupid of me, oes? But in due course. When I am feeling more myself. And with fun will come - whatever comes next."
     He nods, satisfied with that. Not satisfied in full, but - as satisfied as he's going to be, tonight. "So," Gwilym exhales, "what about you? Are you ... going to be alright?"

     He is in like mood tonight. Little is pleasing him. And he does not enjoy feeling this way. It is not something he makes a habit of, no matter that it is a sort of birth right. "I will feel myself again at some point, or rather I will become a new 'me' at some point. I do not know when," he softly replies. He finishes his Guinness but does not immediately call for a third. "I do not know why I am like this. I have plenty to do," usually that is always his answer, to do something, to read something. "I don't even have stomach for a book. Nothing is pleasing me right now."
     I understand what you mean, now. I will keep that in mind. Should it be needed. If he should ever decide to turn his back on his own world, we could have a use for him in ours. Let me know, hmm? And you...you make sure you keep in contact with me when you are off with the circus. Do not make me come looking for you. You know I will, Gwilym Gwyn Garu. It's a promise, his eyes echo.
     "I hope I'm not going to be like this the entire time he's gone," Iowerth suddenly drolls. I need to be excited about this work of mine, if I'm to accomplish anything. I can't be worried about whether or not he's going to be gone for days or weeks or months. And with whom. The mer-man... why does it bother me so much, do you think? Is it as simple as the fact that I know it happened? Or that it happened right under my nose?

     "Nothing is satisfying. Food is without savour, no matter how much salt I add," Gwilym agrees, making a face. "It is what it is, oes? But I do not like it."
     He rubs his forehead, not meeting your eyes though he smiles at you. Oes, well, hopefully it will never be necessary for you to use him like this. I do not like it; I do not like manipulating these roads like this. But if I do not - who will? I will keep in touch. My ability to pop in and out of thin air will have its advantages, oes? No matter where I am, it is a quick trip back home.
     "I hope not, too," Gwilym retorts, giving you a slanting grin. Then he shakes his head. "You'll get over this," he predicts. "You just need to approach it from a different perspective - find something to do to show off to him for when he gets back. See how many miracles you can pull out of your arse in the time he's gone."
     Do you want me to answer this, Io? I will discuss it with you - I would be willing to, glad to - but I don't want to step on your toes...

     "At least we're not alone. Misery loves company," his mouth twists. "You'd think the whole symbiosis bit would end when you're not sharing the same womb. Apparently not." He laughs suddenly, finding humor in that. Misery does love company. He makes a signal for another Guinness.
     Go ahead and answer. If for nothing else than to give us a pleasant diversion. His eyes sparkle with lavender. We might get that bar brawl afterall. He chuckles, waving you to go on as he receives his third Guinness. He stares at it as it begins to settle in, the creamy foam rising.
     Iowerth sits back, giving his body to the booth. He stretches out, trying to give one part of him comfort in the hopes that the rest of him will take the hint. "I do need to change my attitude. That much is true," he notes with a nod. "I'll give it a go when the sun rises again. No point in ruining a perfectly good bender in media res..."

     "No point at all," your brother agrees. "Put it aside; worrying at it tonight isn't going to get anything done except increase the taste of dissatisfaction in your mouth." He should know. He is in the same boat as you. "It seems to have stayed with us - or revisited us, for tonight at least. Bah!"
     He finishes off his Guinness; you are two for two, now. The pickled veg is lying there in its dish, being ignored, rather like a ritual item on the table. One doesn't eat the pickled veg, but one must have it present all the same. I think it hit a little too close to home. You are in the process of making arrangements to marry, not for love, and the one you do love is spending this time in the company of another. We are neither of us monogamous by nature, Io, but ... I watch you, oes? And in some ways, it seems to me that you have given your heart here, more wholly, more completely than with anyone else, ever. You have mated, there. No two loves will ever be exactly the same, of course, but it's hard to feel on solid ground when you've given yourself so much to just one, and have all this going on in your life.
     Gwilym shrugs, running a fingertip around the rim of his emptied glass. You're insecure because you're in love. You're afraid he loves you less than you love him, that he might actually turn away from you - you've had this fear before. When he went off to find himself, remember? Must be something about this time which is striking the same note as that time, because even though this time you two have talked it out, you're still afraid that he is leaving and won't be back. Watching you at least tells me that whatever I have with Iovis, I am not in love. Not yet, anyway.
     His mouth twists again at the thought - Llew is going to start thinking there's something wrong with this batch of Guinness, at this rate. I wish I were feeling better. I would go ahead and unleash myself, on a night like tonight. I feel reckless enough for it. But I just have not got the energy for it. I am just not in the mood.

     Iowerth shakes his head. "I'm not either. You know what tonight's good for? Telly," he says. "Sitting back on a sofa, and just... drifting to nothing. I was hoping a good drunk would do it." He shakes his head again. This Guinness will be his last. "It's only making it entrench." He cuts a smile in understanding.
     Is it that simple? I suppose it is. I wouldn't blame him if he went off with someone who was... less complicated, whose life was less complicated. Someone who could love him more fully. I guess there is a part of me that worries he'll find that some night when I'm with my wife or looking in on my children. Iowerth pauses, his mouth puckering in thought. I thought it was just because I know the mer-man in question. He chuckles a little, rolling his eyes.
     This lover isn't nameless or faceless, someone I'd never meet, or even if I did meet them I'd never know they had known my secret, found it out and loved it as well as I. This one... this one is beautiful... and not anonymous. Though... it is true what you say. I have made a commitment to Tiernan. Within mind and heart.
     He stares into the Guinness a while longer before he drinks. I am worrying over nothing. Upset over nothing. Jealous. He smirks, nodding at that. On two counts. His gaze settles on you. I argue with him one night about Agapios, and the next night I'm meeting Iovis. Iowerth sits up. "No wonder I'm out of sort," he drolls aloud.

     "Drifting, at least. I could do without telly. Too much noise." Gwilym is contentious, he half closes his eyes. "If I am going to get drunk, it will have to be a change to vodka or tequila or sommat else hard enough to throw a punch. Not this." With regret, he sets his glass aside. "Guinness is good for .. sitting. Not getting drunk." For him, anyway.
     Your secret has been found out. Six words which for either of us is enough to make us pucker and go 'oh shite'. For all that you like him being confident, you are not so keen on other people knowing what a jewel you have, oes? Because if they know, they may try to steal it. And the jewel may find it wishes to be stolen. You can do nothing about the potential thieves, brawd. If they are out there, they are out there. But you can make sure that the jewel has no interest in being stolen. And you are trying to do that. I would say ... get busy with your work. With your projects. Find where you can get him to help you - where his input would be valuable, and valued, where he can see how much you value him. For his mind, for his soul, if you will. I know how you feel about him as much as anyone outside your skin can and better than most. But all living things have their moments of doubt, don't they? You are having one now. That is all.
     He smiles at you, then closes his eyes, leaning forward. "I need to do something," Gwilym grouses. "I can't stand all this sitting and thinking. If I think too much, I might actually come to conclusions, and that is something to be avoided at all costs."

     He exhales. It is his only commentary to what you say. You are right. He has acknowledged it. Iowerth frowns at its rightness, at the sound of the hammer striking the nail of it so squarely. He pushes aside the Guinness as well. It is offering nothing in drunkenness or comfort. If I worry about it, he shall certainly leave.
     "I think I am going to go upstairs. Come the morning, back to work," he says. There is just no satisfaction to be found. Not tonight. Forcing it to come merely guarantees it shall not. "And you, Gwi?" Iowerth wonders quietly. "Off to that place you go during times like these? If I were you," he trails out, "...I'd go to Tours. Surely, out of my glummer orbit you'll find your humor again."
     Iowerth rises, his layered hair and layered clothing such a look on him. A scholar king out for a night of deep contemplation. His hand comes to land on your shoulder, a pat and a rub given. "You're welcome to join me, but I fear it's not going to do much in the way of snapping your own mood. Maybe we should go our separate ways tonight. At least one of us should feel better..."

     "My mood is none of your fault. It came on me before yours; it came on me for my own reasons. For my own sins, I suffer, not for yours." Gwilym grins a little as he looks to you, and then he exhales as well. "Not Tours. I ... am no fit company tonight. I would do something wrong," he whispers it to you. "Destructive, I think. It is still building in me, you see. And now I have to watch myself. What I do, what I say. Because I could do it - I could say something which would make it all go down the drain. Or," he shrugs, smirking suddenly, "spiral out of control into an orgy. Maybe I should just go find one of those."
     He doesn't know. He is lost, and aware of it - acutely conscious of it, no matter how he checks for moss on the backs of trees in his mind. You receive a glance in kind as you rise. "Will you be all right on your own? I ... admit, I do not think I should stay. If I stay here, down here, there is too much risk of things. Going with you would be safe, but... possibly not the best thing for either of us." Better, perhaps, he express this energy on his own. Where it cannot hurt you - cannot catch at you in its wake. You are in no mood for it, anyway.

     The two of you are sharing energy, sharing mood. You are caught in shadows, he in whirlpools. Harmless at first glance, but what whirlpool isn't. Iowerth stands near you, his hand leaving you after a moment. We do no one good tonight. Iowerth nods. His comprehension is immediate. "I do not know how safe going with me would be," he drawls. "But either way, I agree. Be careful," he repeats in a hush, his hand patting you again as he starts to withdraw.
     I am not mastering the whirlpools tonight, Iowerth notes. They are mastering me. But... I will right that course tonight. Somehow. Call me from the circus, at least. Let me know you are okay. From time to time.
     He is starting to dissemble, and he knows that he must go. A king cannot cloak himself for long. He does not go upstairs. He is too much even for that, but rather turns to head out the front door. He looks back as he puts his shoulder to the scarlet painted wood, one corner of his mouth quirking upward to make a crooked smile.

Posted by rowan at January 13, 2007 09:14 PM