He's so knackered he's half tempted to call for the meat wagon, except that's too much like work. The hardest part about parting from his brother was the parting itself; smoldering looks exchanged, last minute kisses becoming bear-like hugs and pounded fists to each other's backs. And he let Iowerth go, returning himself by way of his shadows to his mother's abode.
     This was followed by more magic; the remaining paper crumpled from the walls with a piercing glance (glue's bonds are after all nothing more nor less than another lock), gathered and dispersed by way of shadows to a disused corner of a junk heap somewhere. The new paper was laid out in rolls in each room, and from somewhere else, he drew a flute. No pied piper of Hamelin, him, to wizard away children. But paper? A mere bagatelle. Every room looks as fresh and knew as if it had been worked over by master craftsmen.
     Flute dismissed, then, Gwilym cracks the windows open with a low groan - all this bending. All this moving. "Damn you, brawd," he murmurs to himself - with a grin he can't quite help. Shirt tugged off and draped across the back of the couch, a dab of paste drawn across it first, across the knees of denim jeans, feet bare and with a bit of paper stuck to one; another lick of paste in his hair, and smudged across one cheek, he collapses onto the couch with a loud, well-enjoyed groan. One arm drapes across his eyes...
     Time for a well-deserved snooze, oes? Poor abused mite that he is.

     It will have been several minutes into your nap when quiet steps may have been heard. Your hearing is quite refined -- as it must be, no? To avoid certain arrest and death from jealous husbands and outraged fathers. Those quiet steps are masculine, and most might not hear it at all. But the whistle of a kettle? Well, that shot through the house like a clarion call, hushed suddenly with the lifting of the kettle off the stove.
     He had found his way into the maison on a stream of sunlight, his straight burnished hair longer in front than in back. He looks no older than you, though you know it's a mirage -- as so much of reality truly is. He is dressed in red leather pants, red Doc Martens and a tight-fitting white shirt with silk-screen red lettering -- Welsh for No More Kings. Ha, what a sense of humor.
     As you napped, your father stood over you smiling a moment. You look like you've worked hard. You've at least worked hard at looking like you worked hard (he knows the well from which you sprang, no?). Lips pursing in a grin held in check, he headed for the kitchen and put a kettle on.
     That's the kettle you're now hearing being set on a cool burner to simply simmer in silence. Two cups of tea are poured, complete with cream and sugar and a plate of buttery scones. The scent lifts and then his voice pads against your senses. I think you've suffered enough. His tone is even, steady within you. The voice of your thieving father...

     Ears prick up, no matter how tired he is; muscles tense. It is inbred by now; he cannot help himself from this reaction in this, an environment he cannot consider 'safe'. Perhaps there are too few environments he would consider safe; with the whistling of the kettle, his eyes open, for few foes would be making tea. Unless it's to throw boiling water in his face. It's a cautious arm lifted, therefore...
     "Da," Gwilym tells you as he calls out sleepily. "Nos dda... helping yourself to the provisions?" He lifts himself gingerly from the couch, straightening with a groan. I've been worked over and halfway into my grave, he complains humorously. Mother sent you? Well, I hope she'll be happy with the house.
     He rises, padding over the newly refinished floors and down the stairs to the kitchen. A fist is rubbed against one eye, and he yawns again. "I'd only been asleep a few minutes," he mutters. "How long've you been here, anyway?" Red-gold eyebrows so like your own lift, not without their mischief. How much do I need to keep up the pretense?

     "Not long," Rhodri grins smoothly, nodding to a cup of tea. "You're probably starving. I brought a little something." Hot buttered scones baked with honey. A personal favorite of his own. Leaning back against the counter, arms folding at his chest, he's grinning. "When I look at you, the question is not what have you been up to, but what haven't you been up to." He grins, turning to take up his own cup of tea. He sips at it, and then reaches for a scone.
     "It's good to see you. I felt it was overdue, so I came in your mother's stead. And no, I'm not going to lecture you. I think you did the proper thing. If you have knowledge that allows success, saves lives, then you should utilize it. Maybe next time leave a note." But that's all the lecturing he's going to do, your father.
     His mouth twitches at the corners. "I'll perform the usual inspections. I'm sure she'll want to come herself tomorrow, so you might want to be here. Maybe one last night." He gives you a heads-up. Honor among thieves. Setting his cup aside, he looks at you, that half-grin remaining. "How long has it really taken you?"

     "I could eat," Gwilym admits. He pulls out a chair, sinking into it gingerly; shirtless and shoeless, hair wild and untamed, he must look a fright. "Somehow, I forgot to, last night." He was busy with ... other things. A slight grin crosses his lips. "Must've been too tired," he tells you blandly, taking his scone and breaking off a piece. "What about you, da? What've you been up to?"
     Two thief kings, sitting around a kitchen table and swapping stories. How home-like; how familial. Gwilym grins a little; if you have stories for him, this could be good. One elbow props on the wooden table as he sighs, reaching slowly for his mug. He is a little slow in reflexes today.
     "Mum's protective," he waves her concerns away airily with another piece of scone. "She hugged me and cried over me and beat me with a paper towel tube. Considering what the blokes on the other end were waving at me, it wasn't so bad. When's she due, though, da? She's crazy as papa when he can smell beef pasties but can't find them."
     Another grin, and he dips his chin a little. "I finished what - half an hour ago?" It's absolutely true! Green eyes widen at you, and then your son grins at you. "...But all together, it probably took me an hour, oes?" He rolls his shoulders in a winsome shrug. "I was too tired to waste time."

     He smiles at you, a loving grin from his seat across from you. He's not going to say a ruddy word to your mother. Honor among thieves. "Not soon enough," Rhodri chuckles. The laughter fades naturally and he sighs, "She's having a bit of a hard go of it this time around. One, it's slower. Two... it's just different on the material plane. It's taking a lot of her energy. And everything is a lot more... everything. Sometimes that's a good thing," he rolls out without elaborating as he eats a bit of the scone. There's a soft laugh and wilding eyes, those emerald stones of his, as you mention Davydd's craving of beef pasties. "Never stand between that man and his food."
     Lifting the cup again, he sips at his tea. "As for me, apart from dodging objects thrown at me, I'm helping your papa with his money expenditures. I've built a bit of an earthly empire. He's tapping a bit of it for this ...human outreach thing he has going on. His no mortal left behind program." He smirks a bit, then shrugs. "It's a good idea. A bit idealistic maybe, but worthy. Nothing exciting," Rhodri chuckles, hearing himself. "The music idea of your mother's is on hold. I'm not sure it'll get done any time soon. I have to admit, and this is just between you and me," a pointed green glance. "I'm actually just fine with that. The thought of touring around just to be famous always seemed a bit pointless to me. But then," he grins, "I am six hundred years old. Almost everything sounds pointless."
     "Pull a muscle?" he wonders suddenly. You're sitting down like an old man. "Try not to work so hard next time, boyo." He laughs warmly, knowing you've been into something. He doesn't ask. He doesn't pry. In fact, he doesn't want to know. "I'm planning a huge end of summer feast in Avalon. Arthur and his lot are going to tourney, plenty of fertility rituals." Red-gold eyebrows dance. "But right now," he exhales softly, "...your mother and her health are my focus. Nothing stolen, sadly. No adventures apart from the very grown up ones, my boy. I leave that now to you. I understand you're back in the ethereal realm for good..."
     No exploring the alleys of London for you, eh?

     He's grinning down at his cup; able to be quiet with you. No need to act the part. That's new, actually. When was the last time he was this at ease, even with you? For once, he is utterly and completely relaxed, not needing his usual defenses. "Poor mum. I'll have to get her something nice. A nice hard rock for throwing, maybe."
     He looks up, apple-green eyes glimmering at you, grin spreading in his mirth. A hand passes back over his hair, pulling out the bits of paste as best he can. "So you're making money and papa's spending it. Wish I could help him." There is genuine regret in his voice, and the grin fades slightly, becoming smaller. Both elbows are propped on the edge of the table as he leans forward, looking at you. "I'm sorry about that, da. But ... I ..."
     He looks down, scowling. How he hates to admit that there is anything that he cannot do. "Being here, there is usually this - noise in my head that I cannot get rid of. It builds, the longer I am here, until it drives me mad. Duw," he barks a short laugh, ducking his chin and looking back up, "I was impossible to live with, I'm sure Io'd tell you. I think we almost came to blows once or twice. I had - things going on, oes? But here, it is like being trapped in an echo chamber with bees."
     The humming growing ever louder, the fear of being stung...
     One hand comes up, paws at his cheek. "I ... feel guilty," Gwilym admits. "Like I let papa down, let you down. But for Io and I, this world just - it is not for us. Not as a steady diet. We have too much else to do, we are just not of this place. It is not only that we do magic, it is that we are magic. It is as tied to our blood as - as any of the shite Io pulls out of his books." He rolls his eyes at himself, slouching back in his seat. It is a long explanation for him, especially for explanations so devoid of frills and embroidery.
     Another little grin and he slants you a sidelong smile. Really? A feast? Fertility rituals? "Am I invited?"

     "You didn't disappoint me. Or your papa," Rhodri notes quietly and seriously. "More... it was ... an exercise, oes? To see if you could or would like it. If you were meant to be there. We were worried, all three of us, that perhaps we sheltered you too much in the magical realms. But you are magical creatures," he grins at that, eating another piece of scone and then finishing the tea. "You belong in the magical realm. I find it neither surprising nor disappointing."
     He looks at you, his focus intense as you mention your brother. "You boys doing better? You've been under one another's skin lately, yeah?" It happens but you two are so close.
     How close he could not conceive...
     "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want. You certainly don't have to rationalize anything to me, Gwilym. I'm your father... I love you and you have my support. Whatever it is you aim to do. So long as you don't get yourself killed for no reason." He grins as you latch onto the fertility rituals. "Come disguised and don't tell your mother that I told you... there will likely be a bacchanal of some sort. I'm still working that out..."

     "I just wanted to be sure," Gwilym says quietly, looking down to his mug; he nods. You say it, he accepts it as true. You are not in the habit of pacifying him. "We are not meant to be there. This world, it distracts us. We distract each other, to be sure, but - we are not of this world, da, and trying so hard for even such a short time..."
     It nearly destroyed us. Nearly put the final blow to the nails under our skin, hanging us up separate from one another. Duw... when I think how near I came to losing the one I love most in the world, I go pale with fright and sick with fear.
     But that has been averted. Green eyes lift to you, that catlike mischief in his grin. "We're fine, papa," he answers nonchalantly. "We had some things to work out, but - I think it'll be alright, oes? I'm going to keep touching base with him, though. Make sure to spend time one on one with him - getting under his skin, as you say, but so he knows we're not so easily rid of one another, oes? Don't worry about us."
     Don't worry, his eyes and grin echo. Really. A shrug rolls out, and he leans back in his chair, tipping back on two legs. "Honest, da, I promise. I ... need a bit of a rest, before I go charging back into the fray. I'm going to pick up on some of my studies," his eyes roll, "since I've now been part of a military campaign, blah blah blah, preparing for the future," he makes a face, "and I do also need to do some things in mother's city." And another sidelong look at you. "I don't suppose you're ready for me to start learning the shadows of Avalon, no?" Probably not, but he can look sly and hopeful at the same time while trying to avoid a cuff to his head.
     "I promise not to tell mother," Gwilym holds up one hand as if making solemn oath, "if I attend any bacchanals. And to hide myself. I'll bring a partner - that always helps." He nods solemnly. "Wing-man."

     "I suppose there's no time like the present," he says about Avalon. He does not shelter you from experience, from learning, from mistakes. You have to learn; you can only do that by...doing. He smiles a little at you, his own sly look. While his affection shows readily and warmly, what his thoughts are? He has the face of a master thief. There's no telling what he's thinking, apart from the fact that he loves you.
     There is respect in his eyes. "I have some maps you should study...the links that papa made between Avalon and England. He has created inroads... to allow the better flow of magic back into the mortal realm. You should learn those... and begin patrolling them. I will send them to you," he nods to that. Easy warmth springs from his eyes and his smile warms upon his face. "You look better," Rhodri notes softly. "And I'm glad whatever was happening has been patched up. You boys have been so close, it's not shocking you've gotten on one another's nerves. But... remember... of everyone you meet, he will always be the one you can count on."
     Rhodri finishes the scone, brushing the crumbs from his hands. "I'm not worried. I trust your capacity to get yourself in...and out... of trouble. Both are necessary for a long and full life. I will tell your mother that you are physically exhausted," his green eyes twinkle, "...but that her walls look amazing. All in all, you were...most contrite in your not telling her of your plans, and sensitive to the fact that she is your mother and is pregnant with your brother and therefore all the more sensitive."
     He may be your father, but you will continue to see that he is first and foremost your partner in crime. One day, you will walk the road with him, he with you. I'm very proud of you, it resonates more when his voice issues beneath your skin. Rhodri fixes his gaze on you and smiles. "Very much so, Gwilym Gwyn Garu...."

     He is curious as to your thoughts, but wiser than to follow too long along that road. You have more years than he, and he does not hope to be able to uncover you in your many guises, your many masks. A question pops onto his tongue; unasked for now. Perhaps he will ask. Perhaps he will not.
     "I know that, I promise, da. Io is my lifeline," Gwilym says it simply. "He and I are ... intertwined. It is as it ought to be." He does not explain. He does not need to; you have not asked. Of this family, you are perhaps the most content to leave others to their secrets, and it is easier with you, perhaps, for it.
     "Maps will be useful, oes... and diolch," your son chuckles, low in his throat. "I do love mother - we all do, is there anyone who doesn't? She inspires us all to love, not always wisely, but well. But she is having trouble letting go of us, I think. I apologized when she was beating me, but I'll send flowers - I'll bring flowers," he amends, "once I've caught up with myself." And with my Other. I will need a moment with him before facing mother's moods.
     The thought brings the glimmer back to his eyes, anticipation lightening them. And your praise brings a flush to his face. Gwiolch, da, his voice is quiet, nothing withheld. I've been trying. I think I've reached a plateau, though. For a little bit - a window ledge, oes? From here, he can see new opportunities, new treasures, taking his rest before he begins his work again...

     "You're her first babies," Rhodri says softly. "And you'll forever be her little boyos. I had a hard time too," he admits it with a grin. "But when I heard the rumors of you in the Red Light, I had to get over it. I drank myself silly one night goin': Oh my little boy is gone!" He laughs. It sounds of summer. It gives off light. As his laughter quiets, he winks. "I got over it. I now take pride in the man you're becoming, the thief in the night, the phantom, the future king."
     He rises from his chair, "One night, at midnight, you and I will head out on The Road," he notes. "You can show me the ways you've found, and I can show you the ones I've found." And he's standing before you, arms opening out. "For now, give me a hug, boyo. I'm going to push off..."
     One night the King of Thieves will ride out with the Black Jack. When it is time, we will know. Rhodri closes his arms around you, holding you tight, wrapping you up. "You're growing tall," he murmurs. His hands clapping on your back, he gives you a squeeze. Nothing wrong with plateaux, boyo. It's good to stand still a moment, have a look around, before continuing on. His hand goes to your head as his hug relents. "You're a good lad, a brave lad. Call me if you need me... or want your old da around. Otherwise, I'll see you at the cards, what? Maybe next week? High stakes in the best brothel in town."

     He scoffs. "Da! We're not babies. You and Io," Gwilym rolls his eyes, reddening, "pride of the Red Light. My arse." He shifts in his seat, head shaken. He is amused, embarrassed, pleased all at once. "I am trying to leave a legacy, but you make it hard work for me. But I am doing better, da."
     He wonders, thoughts slipping through his mind but not sent. Did you have this difficulty, so many masks, you almost lost your way? Was it mother that helped you to come out behind them once and for all? Is this part of my legacy, da - that we hide our hearts behind our masks and grow lonely and wild, until at last the truth must be told...
     But he does not ask. The thoughts are there only if you reach forth and pluck them from him. To ask would be admission; it would reveal more than he is prepared to reveal. Will reveal. "The Road," he echoes, a bit dubiously. "Is it the same Road for all thieves? I suppose it must be." Even if expressed differently.
     You pull him into a hug, slapping his back and he yours, a hand landing to your shoulder as he grins at you, ducking his chin. You'll have to fight to keep up with me, old man, he boasts, but there is sweetness in his grin, an absence of true competition. He has found some contentment. Things will happen when they happen. How does it feel - becoming the 'old man' in someone's eyes, as Davydd became in your own?
     "Next week," Gwilym agrees, "I'll tell Iowerth, maybe the sea captain can grace us with his presence." Fond, friendly sarcasm, lightly rolled off his tongue. "If not, more ale and wine for us, oes? If mother lets you out for that long." You are released, no mention made on his height; he is inclined to grumble. Growing, perhaps, but not so fast, not fast enough. Youth is ever impatient until it is too late.
     "I'll call you, but I'll only need you if mum decides she hates the wallpaper." Gwilym yawns, picking up his plate and carrying it to the sink. "For now, I'm going back to my nap. See you, da. Give mother and papa my love..."

     "I shall," Rhodri murmurs. He cuffs the back of your head gently with a grin and turns, heading out of the kitchen...
     The Road, his voice comes to you even after all other sound of him is gone, that of the secreted life. The profane and the sacred, the ravished and the rare. We walk it, we who seek the secrets of life, or who are ourselves a thousand faces behind a thousand varied masks. Transformation... transformation is the road... ever becoming, ever unfolding...
     His voice drifts within you, like the tendrils of smoke, of fog...
     ...or of your own shadows...

Posted by rowan at July 22, 2006 06:15 PM