Life is pain, is that it, mother? Ah, oes, I am duly chastised. You've sent me to the material plane to labor on your behalf, stripping old wallpaper off, cleaning the walls and putting up new paper. You've sent me to Paris, mother; to a land whose sensuality and grace seems written for me.
     Oes, duly chastised...
     He took his punishment with relative grace, with only a certain minimum of protest calculated to throw his mother off his plans. No, no, don't throw me into that brier patch! Not all the brambles of a thousand worlds could bother me more than that there thicket! And Fiona, whether in her distraction or otherwise, never had a clue. She sent her (slightly) younger son off to Paris with a hug, a kiss and a scold and instructions to do his best and no magic. And to these, Gwilym Gwyn Garu submitted gracefully in her presence.
     Once in Paris, however, it quickly became something else quite altogether. His sleeves were indeed rolled up, and he did indeed begin to take down the old wallpaper. He went round tapping on walls, smiling to himself with fox-like certainty as he listened to what might lie behind. Tendrils of magic were sent questing into the shadows, pulling at old glue and staples so that the paper shivered and slid from the walls, denuding them as a tipsy and flushed noblewoman of her gown.
     But he doesn't dare go too fast. If his mother should come to check up on him, he needs plausible deniability. And so, though the paper's all off and it's not even noon of the first day, he's made himself a hearty lunch and washed it down with some of the excellent wine in Fiona's cellar; and then he's laid himself down on the bed, an arm sprawled over his eyes for a nap. All that hard work he did, after all!
     Vive le Francais...

     Let's just add this to the list of things We're Not Going To Tell Her. Your using magic to strip the walls and do whatever you please on your own time table. My putting a whirlpool in her basement so I can pop up whenever I want or maybe I might need to. Anyway, who's going to know but me. And you.
     And which one of us is going to tell her anything?
     A bird flew through the house, up the basement stair and to the living room. Up the maison stairs and around the bedrooms until he found the one with the bed full. The speckled starling landed with barely a whisper and up stood Io, dressed in clothes befitting a prince in Paris -- midnight colored trousers and a midnight colored ribbed pullover, seadragons of the same shade dipping down past the hem of the short sleeves.
     "No no, Gwi, you're working too hard," Iowerth drolls low and wry, "...you should slow down, brawd, before you pull something." Iowerth Rhudd Draig leans a shoulder against the opening of the doorway, smirking as he peers in to see you draped over the bed. "You've been here too long. You're already the proper Frenchman..."

     "Not yet," your brother retorts. One eye opens, peering at you. He's in a white disposable t-shirt that pulls tight against his skin and a pair of jeans. Ultimately disposable, as he intends for them to get dirty enough to keep up the charade. "I haven't polished off more than one bottle of wine today."
     He sits up, giving you a quick grin, leaning forward against his thighs with one red-gold eyebrow cocked up. "She told you I was here, or did you guess by not finding me anywhere else?" The words are light, and meant as they sound - but they echo in himself for a moment, and to cover it, he stands up. "Come into the kitchen," he invites. "I've got some leftovers of my brunch. I," and there is that quick, thieving smile, "liberated a little bit of France. Papa would be proud, oes?"
     Whether or not you answer in the affirmative, he moves towards the stairs to the kitchen all the same. He's barefoot, moving on the balls of his feet so that he passes lightly, without a sound. Every nuance, every possible whisper of the newly refinished floors is silenced before it can sigh. "We can unearth another bottle or two, if you're so inclined. Tonight, though, I'm going out. Mother wouldn't want me to pass up on Paris altogether, would she?"

     "You should go out. Paris is ... a very beautiful city full of very beautiful women. They are not used to men being charming. You should not lack for company." He follows you, smiling easily. He's looking quite dapper, really. Fiery red hair short and spiky, it's blaring red against so much midnight blue. "She told me she put your arse to work, so I returned to the scene of my own chagrin. Nice floors, yeah? I sweated and toiled over those, boyo."
     Then he glances around -- coast being clear, he gives you a wide grin and a wink. As if. "So I took a wild arsed guess," he says as he enters the kitchen behind you. "Papa would be proud. He tells me stories about loving France. And French women, though he always makes me promise not to repeat that." He looks at you and smirks. "I thought I'd come and see how you were handling your comfortable Bastille."
     There's a table in the kitchen, he remembers having dinner there with his mother and Tiernan. Pulling out a chair and swiveling it about, Iowerth takes a wide-legged seat, arms folded over the back of the chair. "What did you have for brunch, and sure...wine'd be good," he says. He waits for you to haul out the goodies. "I'm going to need all the wine I can get. The announcement's gone out."
     Announcement. What announcement. THE ANNOUNCEMENT. That one. Periwinkle and green eyes go wide as he rests his chin on his folded arms. I'm going to be chained and bound. Kingdoms around one ankle, wife around the other.

     "Cheese and bread, of course," retorts Gwilym, pulling out the remains of his demolished lunch. It's only been a handful of hours, but he could eat again. He can always eat. He sets crusty baguettes on the table (along with a knife with which to cut it), several cheeses, soft and hard, grapes as green as bottleglass and large and round and firm, and a platter of sliced duck breast, cut against the grain. It's followed by - what else? A couple of bottles of good French wine.
     "The announcement, hm? Ah, oes, so that would explain why the tide rose last night - the drool from a thousand ladies and princesses and their esteemed papas must have driven the sea up a good three inches." Your brother is heartless. He laughs at your distress; but the laugh is followed by sympathy, and he reaches forward to pat you on the shoulder.
     I'll rescue you from time to time. Drag you off as the wild younger brother, oes? We'll rampage through the shadows where noone will see if you are the High King to be or just a former chimney sweep's boy.
     Gwilym grabs plates and wine glasses, setting them on the table without looking at you. "Oes, the women are very beautiful. I'll have to see how I feel by tonight. Right now, my head is only buzzing a little; it's not too bad. But I still aim to have this entire thing done in less than a week. I don't want to stay longer than that." A glass is set in front of you solidly. "Pour."

     The two of you are all arms, legs and appetite. Papa's genetic thread. The one commonality of all his children. Even his daughters, mind you. You set the glasses down and your brother takes the bottle, pulling out the cork and pouring. Iowerth looks relieved as you say you're going to spirit him away. He could handle that sort of piracy. But periwinkle eyes roll, lavender swirling in the green, as you talk about sea levels.
     "God," he drones out, "... the shite you say, honestly. I'm sure there are a lot of position hungry, status dreaming women who are sharpening their fingernails while their fathers rub their hands together in glee. God knows what I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life." He's not seeing any potential positives in the situation, mind you. "Arse..." he barks with a snort but he sets the bottle aside and toasts you with his glass anyway.
     He goes for the bread and some of the cheese, piling high and eating with tremendous gusto. Those self-same eyes lift to you, keenly staring as you mention the buzzing. "Well, don't make yourself do something you're not going to enjoy. Shite. I'd go back to the other realm, if I were you. Come back at dawn," he shrugs. "You don't really have to stay here. Course, I'm telling you. As if I need to," Iowerth grins suddenly. He takes a healthy swallow of wine and then turns his chair around again, facing the table more comfortably. "I don't think you should stay longer than absolutely necessary. I worry about you here. I've gotten to... where I just don't even want to visit it. Not right perhaps. I don't know. Maybe it's just stress. I can't really focus my curiosity on this place. I have... so much to do. Papa liked the court design at least. You know those islands I'm always talking about? I created something of a fortification there. I'm basing my kingdom on a series of twelve islands, the largest of which is crescent shaped. The Island of the Crescent Moon, I've named it. The crown jewel of the Court of the Crescent Moon. I want you to take a look at it, design some wards for me. Pick out some potential security concerns. I'll send the plans over to you."
     It's a feast of bread and cheese and wine. Is there anything better? Perhaps chocolate. Fruit filled pastries. Not much else. Iowerth decimates a quarter of a baguette after about fifteen minutes as he's one glass down. Lifting the bottle to re-pour, he looks at you. "I'm going to depend on you to rescue me," he murmurs with a smile. "I'll probably start meeting the future missus kings in a month. God help me."

     Duck is layered onto bread and lifted to his mouth, and he begins to eat with gusto. Never mind he already ate; there's food, isn't there? I'll always rescue you when you need it, brawd. You should know that by now. It goes both ways, oes?
     He grins at you as you call him names, reaching for his own glass and bringing it to his mouth. He's not doing so much talking, right now; his mouth is full, and he is spending more of his attention in listening to you. "I'm torn," Gwilym admits quietly, once his mouth is clear. "Part of me wants to go and see what I can see. But it's a small part; not like it used to be." Apple-green eyes look to you, and then away.
     "It isn't even the noise in my head, right now. My head's pretty quiet; as quiet as it's ever been on this plane. I don't know." He is so uncomfortable with this. Part of him wants to examine it, uncover his own secrets, while part of his adamantly refuses - at war with himself, locked in a struggle to the death. "I'll just sleep on it, see what happens, I suppose."
     He waves it away with his fork, reaching forward to spear a grape and glancing to you with a faint grin. "You have so much to do," Gwilym retorts, "because you are still very bad at delegating, brawd. You're fully aware of your own responsibilities, but you're not so good at sloughing those off onto someone else's shoulders. I know." He does it too. "I'll be happy to look and see what I can tell you; good that you got papa's approval, though. He's a tough critic."
     I miss da, he suddenly realizes; shakes it off. Not a child anymore, Gwi. Mother's gone temporarily insane and the entire family's stressed out to no end, between admissions of men with men, pregnancies, royal weddings to come and wars. Maybe this is a better place for a few days, at least.
     "You're going into this with entirely the wrong attitude." Gwilym settles back, regarding you - not without sympathy. He carries his glass with him, swirling it around and watching the red liquid coat the glass and sheen off. "Why're you so convinced that getting married is the end of the world, anyway? What's going to change in your life, really?"

     "It's all happening too fast," he replies, a soft admittance to you. "I mean, one day two years ago I was minding my own business carting the last changes to the maps of the ocean and reading up on Phoenician maritime techniques and then along comes Tiernan. Not two years later, I'm marching up the aisle to some woman, I'll be having children next, and court functions..." He stops abruptly and takes a breath.
     "I'm feeling sorry for myself. What a colossal disappointment," Iowerth suddenly drolls. He rolls his eyes at himself and sits heavily back. He rolls his shoulders. "I don't particularly want to get married right now. It adds complications onto complications. And it is a much shorter trip to fathering children from there. You're actually expected to. I'm not ready to be a father. I'm not sure I'm ready to be king, course there's no worry about that. Da's ... not near ready to do something else. He just got started. Still, it's just a lot of responsibility, Gwilym. A lot of weight. A lot of pressure...I'm not sure I'm ready, brawd."
     This is a surprising admission from one who seems so confident. But now it's a reality and it's on his doorstep. That always changes things. "It's someone else to answer to, potentially. And what if... what if I fall in love with her, what then? For any of us? And good God, worse still: what if I can't fucking stand any of them?"
     He's talking himself into a frenzy, very much as you do from time to time. Iowerth puts the heel of his hand to his ear and rubs. You have snow between your ears. He? He hears the sea rush in his own, like a permanent case of swimmer's ear. Narrowing his eyes in that discomfort, Iowerth is quiet.
     "I'm making obstacles for myself," he sighs, "...I know. I just... see so many different angles. I get ...bogged down in the details sometimes. Tiernan, you... you can drill right down to the essential. That's why I need you both so much. I'd be lost on the sea without my compass and my star." You're my star, Gwilym. My guiding Polaris.
     Taking a deep breath, he releases all that anxiety and stress. "I should just... be open to whatever it is, yeah?" Fiery eyebrows arch upward as he looks at you, a look that realizes he's helpless to change the course of his ship now. He's in a whirlpool. Now all he can do is... ride it out...

     "Well, you're not going to get married tomorrow." But he understands. You can see it in his eyes; the sympathy that creases the corners of his eyes, and he sets down his wine, coming up out of his chair. It'll be alright, brawd.
     Simple words. He moves slowly round the table to behind your chair, his hands landing on your shoulders for a squeeze. "Let's look at the facts, oes?", he murmurs. "First, it's going to take a while for you to find a bride you can stand. There's a lot of women out there, and many of them are just not going to be your cup of tea. You're going to have to work past your own conflicted feelings a little before you can pick one, and that in itself can take up to another two, maybe even three years. Then there'll be the courtship and planning for the wedding itself, the negotiations and treaties - you're looking at least at another year, Io, maybe longer."
     His hands release your shoulders, giving you a pat, and he rubs the top of your head. "So you've got the wedding, and even if you get her pregnant right away - not impossible, but that's up to you - you've got almost another year before you see the results of it. And in the meantime? In the meantime, you've got Tiernan, and your kingdom, and all the rest that you do. And you'll have me distracting you."
     You are offered a grin that hints at mischief without promising at it, emotion caught behind the smooth green glass of his eyes. "It's not as bad as it looks, Io," Gwilym murmurs, his hand sliding from your hair. "But I know it's hard. If you fall in love with her, I'd say that'd make your life a lot easier, though. Duw help you, in love with your own wife?" His eyes widen in pantomimed shock. "Can't have that! But... look at our family." He shrugs, pulling away, moving round back towards his own chair with slow footsteps.
     "I don't think you can really be unhappy, loving the people to whom you're already tied. You can be unhappy loving people you can't have, or hating people you have to have. Or loving people who don't love you, and so forth. But loving someone with whom you're going to make a child, and a life? Are you worried you'll lose your boy, if you gain a wife?" He shakes his head at you, skeptical of this notion. "And it's simple, duw. Don't marry one you hate. Keep looking. Talk to mother about marrying a goose girl if it comes to that, or importing a bride from somewhere else. As long as she meets mother's approval, how likely is it to make more than a nine-day row with papa and da?"

     "Are we destined to be so knotted and complicated?" he whispers, closing his eyes as you give his head a rub. You can tell by his shoulders that he's stone straight through. He doesn't argue your points, though the idea of a divided heart -- any more divided than it already is -- is something that is bothering him. How wide can one heart be? How many lovers, wives, special people can one truly have and be true to?
     "I'm going to have to marry someone. I can't avoid it by drawing out the process, though believe me it's occurred to me. But that's just as bad as not marrying at all. Why can't the prince find someone he likes? Maybe he doesn't like girls, and so on." Iowerth frowns out a sigh, but he nods to the rest you've said. "Your voice is like a foghorn over the seas in my head," he murmurs, reaching over and giving you a brief hug before you draw away.
     "I don't think Papa will much care, and I know Rhodri won't. He finds the whole thing stupid but concedes the point. He's so strangely modern," he grins at you, "...for a six-hundred year old man." The frown will not be off his face much for the next while. That's obvious. But at least he's trying to smile - it makes a weird sort of non-committal smirk. But at least it's a smirk. "Tiernan will start looking for a wife not long after I marry, just to avoid the obvious. I guess I am worried about that. And not being able to spend as much time with those I love, after family and country's added into it all. I guess I just found out that I'm going to be king." He snorts a laugh at himself. "Childhood's over, Gwilym. No more galavanting for this sailor."
     And maybe it's a touch of mourning the death of his childhood as much as all the other pressures that's bothering him. "I need more wine," Iowerth says suddenly, refreshing his glass. He tips the bottle to you with eyebrows lifted. Care for more, brawd?
     Diolch, Gwi.... for everything you've said. For... helping me see the other side of things. I'd be right sick in my bed if it weren't for you. Iowerth takes a good swallow of the wine. It calms him. At least for the moment. "You're right... it may be four or five years before it's all said and done," he seems relieved by that notion. "It'll be the biggest wedding until you get married," he smirks, "... so I can drag that out over two years, surely. Shite, on cake choices alone..."

     He drags his chair around to next to yours, grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze. "You choose what you need to do, Io. But remember this, at least - the heart has four chambers, oes? I'd say with as complex as we are, that gives room for up to four. Seems a bit chaotic to me, but," Gwilym shrugs, looking at you, "I don't have your problem. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not at all."
     Meanings layered upon meanings. Hinted, teased, then withdrawn. "I'm not saying to prolong it. I'm saying that chances are, it'll genuinely take you some time before you do find someone, brawd - you're not easy to please." Gwilym gives you a quick grin, folding his arms on his thighs and looking up at you. "We like you that way. So if the purpose is just to find you a woman you can stand to marry... there's bound to be one out there. It will just take time."
     Now he leans back in his chair, letting his head tip back, eyes closed. For a moment, the animation drains from his face, leaving him in repose; as if all energy's fled, all vitality, his hands coming up to clasp over his chest. You will be able to spend as much time as you choose, Io. You'll be busy, oes, but you'll also be powerful. You've seen how mother fiddles with the flow of time. What's to stop you from coming here for a few months' holiday and only be gone a few days there? There's ways around everything, if you want there to be. Right now, though, the clock's not counting against you, so stop borrowing trouble and relax.
     He groans, straightening up and rubbing his palms against his eyes. "Come out with me tonight," Gwilym suggests, offering you a quick grin. "We can have a grand old time of it, hiding in shadows until we want to reveal ourselves. Or," he wonders suddenly, "do you have to get back in a hurry? How long are you staying..."

     It is within my power to contain, change, alter. It is as malleable as water, this future of mine. I must take pains to remember this...
     "I told Tiernan that I was going to look in after you," he grins in a slow slant. "And he knows how time shifts between the worlds. One night here is like a month there seems like. But... maybe we can do something about that, too..."
     He has been sleeping a lot since his mother's passing. His body is having to heal, his body and his soul. I try not to worry. He does seem to be improving. I was going to speak to your da, see if he can maybe help to heal some of those marks. It... distresses Tiernan to see those marks...
     "I should be back in the kingdoms tomorrow," he murmurs, "...but... we have all night right?" Iowerth cocks a smile to you and takes a healthy swallow of wine. "Plenty of time to wander the shadows... yeah?"
     His spirits seem to be lifting, the pity fiesta at an end. His smiles come quick, with a flash of lavender and he piles on duck and cheese and bread. Washing it all down with a swallow of wine, Iowerth stands. "Where do you fancy we'll be? I'll need to change my clothes..."

     His smile fades, alters; grimness in his eyes as he looks to you. Your hand is taken again, squeezed and released. I was in his mother's chamber. The marks on him - I do not blame him for being sickened by them. I have seen many things, brawd, in my time spent in shadow; but what I saw there was not of shadows. It was of darkness.
     He leans back out again, a flush of colour rising in his face. "Plenty of time," Gwilym agrees, rising to his feet. "You finish eating, hm? I haven't planned any itinerary. And I'd best do a little more work, or pretend to, before we go out."
     He grins. "Must make it look convincing for mother." A hand rakes back through the red and gold of his hair, eyes closed as he exhales mightily. Wear what you would for meeting with fate. We'll see what fate has in store for us. Tonight, it'll be just us ... two against the world, oes?
     Turning, Gwilym begins to stride from the kitchen - leaving the dishes for you, the bastard. Noone can defeat you, Io, unless you want to be defeated. Sometimes, though, the game isn't about experiencing the win. You learn as much from the other side of the coin as this side. But together...
     Who can defeat us?

Posted by rowan at July 18, 2006 10:10 PM