The place has only been in business a year or maybe a little less, but it's begun getting quite the solid following. Partly it's because the baristas are mostly good-looking and dispense coffee with just enough sass and attitude to be hip without crossing the line into outright offensive; partly it's that the owner has friends in a coffee cartel. Rumors say that's not the only kind of cartel she's got friends in, but so far, the London police haven't shut the place down - yet.
There's a small stage - big enough for the nervous and stammering one night poets or the casual and laid back throwbacks to the hipster age, beatnik black and bongo drums optional; sometimes it's music instead, jazz or blues or folk or something else altogether. Mostly it's mellow things which the small circle of devotees can ring round to bring worship while the more sardonic or more detached can tune out and go on with their lives. And their coffee.
Tonight, there's a stool and a microphone set up, but as yet, no body to occupy them. Noone takes much notice of an empty seat; maybe the management didn't find anyone. Maybe whoever it is took too much of the owner's friends' private stash. Maybe the owner's friends caught up with him.
But no - someone's strolling out, carrying a guitar with the tenderness of a lover and asidling, skew grin that's offered to the audience with a glint in emerald green eyes that promises mischief and some sort of shared joke. Gwilym moves up to the microphone, adjusting it as he settles onto the stool. "Sorry I'm late, ladies and gents," he says easily, "but I was almost mugged for my spot by a group of mimes for my spot. I held them off by building an invisible wall - with any luck, they won't find the invisible door for the next hour 'r so."
He's obviously in his early twenties, and dressed appropriately for his environment. Black jeans, a white shirt, brown leather bomber jacket - the clothes are quietly expensive. The jacket's battlescarred enough to've made it somehow from the R.A.F. days, and his boots are somewhat newer; Docs, of course. It's his hair that's perhaps the most noticeable thing, aside from the accent and going with it; Welsh red-gold, long in front and short in back, the front cut asymmetrical across his brow. "Nos dda to you all; I'm Will Morgan," Gwilym lies easily, "and pleasure to be here with you all. I do take requests, all except for For the love of God, stop playing."
He is warm and congenial, a quiet tone to his voice as he teases, sending a ripple of laughter around the coffee house. Already there are fledgling acolytes looking to join his cult - to which he affects obliviousness. He's just here for the music.
Will Morgan...
One of the Morgan boys...
A mental note is made by a man sitting at a table off to the side of the stage. He smokes a cigarette, his coffee still steaming from the last refresh by the passing barista-waitress (who is also an actress-waitress). His associates have left, Robert LeGrasse and Stephen de Beauchamps. He is alone at a four-top table, his dark suit blending into the darkness that backs him.
Whatever it's actual name, the locals have come to call it the Cup and Saucer. It's one of a thousand places just like it that open and close every year in London. In that way, the cafe-club is no more note-worthy than any other.
But that he and a few of his associates have begun to claim it, drawn by its subterranean, almost crypt like entryway and it being a throw-back to an earlier age, means that it will last as long as they wish it to. There is little better to do in London than wander its streets and discover its hidden cafes and bars.
Here, the dreariness of autumn does not exist. The rain outside is forgotten. And the elixir that passed the lips of many a Londoner since the Dutch trade fills the cups and the room with its dark tones.
Indigo eyes, their color largely masked by the darkness of the cafe's lighting, focus their attention on the stage and the red-haired young man. It is not the name, simply, or merely the color of hair or the quality of skin tone. It is the sound of the voice. It is something beyond appearance. It is not that every Welshman is related. But the genetic strain of one particular Welshman is strong, resilient, and quite prevalent. From Davydd Llywelyn to Kelly Morgan to Captain Morgan even to Sabrina Morgan. And now this Will...
William's hand flicks away the ash from the end of his cigarette and inclines his head to listen to what this young man shall sing. When I think of you, Llywelyn, is this your way of answering?
He is aware of being studied, although not aware of it being you in particular. It is his gift and his curse; this, his metier. As his brother has told him, he burns so brightly. Gwilym Gwyn Garu's smile is that of the boy, for those who adore; the rascal, the rogue, not far beneath the surface. Hinted at beneath sparkling waters, a lure to the deep-swimming salmon.
There's that recklessness in his grin as he begins tuning the keys, twisting the pegs as he plucks a string and letting the note quiver on the air. "So I suppose if I were to call out for the Mission UK, you'd all think I'd gone mad, hm?" Gwilym's smile is so seraphic, it gets a bit of an uncertain laugh from the audience (most of whom are too young and too hip to've ever listened to music THAT old). He starts playing Mercenary in a slow key, singing it sweet as if it were meant to be a love song. "You're a sycophantic, bullshitting, cock sucking, arse licking, mercenary.."
"...Mind numbing, money grabbing, motherfucking scum of the earth, mercenary..."
"...You're a cringing, groveling chicken shit, pissing waste of time..."
"...You're a crawling, whining hypocrite, you fucking piece of slime..."
"...You can take the money and run, but there's nowhere you can hide..."
"...You arsehole mercenary..."
He stops, his grin encouraging a laugh. "Not quite the done thing," Gwilym mimics his grandmother's tone of voice and her expression, nose in the air as if there's a bad smell. "Well," he drawls, "how about something a little more upbeat, hm? In keeping with coffee and out of the 1970s. Such a thing as too much honesty," he winks at a girl sitting on the floor near the post-stamp sized stage. "Innit?"
He isn't waiting for an answer; really, he's playing for himself, but he's pretending otherwise, encouraging his audience to keep up with him. "Here's a song," Gwilym continues, "which always puts me in mind of my parents' marriage. Of course," his smile is quick, conspiratorial, "if you told them that, I'd be for it. Shh," he mock-whispers into the microphone, "let's hope they aren't listening in." His fingers are as nimble as his father's, as his grandfather's; they find their way over the strings as he puts the force of his personality into the song. It has a dreamy resonance, magic leashed in but his persona drawn up nonetheless as golden-voiced, he lets the music out with eyes half closed.
"Silver and gold and it's growing cold
Autumn leaves lay as thick as thieves
Shivers down your spine chill you to the bone
'Cos the mandolin wind is the melody that turns your heart to stone
The heat of your breath carving shadow in the mist
Every angel has the wish that she's never been kissed
A broken dream haunting in your sleep
And hiding in your smile a secret you must keep, love cuts you deep
Love breaks the wings of a butterfly on a wheel
Love breaks the wings of a butterfly on a wheel..."
Those watching at his feet are transfixed; as, to be sure, Gwilym knew that they would be. Little acolytes looking for some fire by which to warm themselves. Looking for a shadow to love and to invest with their dreams, in the hopes that the image'll come off the mental page and be something they can own. Sorry, children, but I don't think I was ever that young, and duw knows, I'm not so very old now.
"There's no scarlet in you, lay your veil down for me
As sure as god made wine, you can't wrap your arms around a memory
Take warmth from me, cold autumn wind cut sharp as a knife
And in the dark for me, you're the candle flame that flickers to life
Love breaks the wings of a butterfly on a wheel
Love breaks the wings of a butterfly on a wheel..."
And they listen. Without really understanding, but I suppose every song's invested with its own meaning twelve times over; wonder what you'd think of this one, Io? Heh. You have your sunlight to lighten you, leaven you. I can't use you for that without leaving you the darker, and I'm not so sure I'd want to be lightened. I've a darkness in me that wants feeding. Though right now, I could go for a good bit of battered cod. Pity this place only serves coffee...
"Wise men say all is fair in love and war
There's no right or wrong in the design of love
And I could only watch as the wind crushed your wings
Broken and torn, crushed like a flower under the snow
And like the flower in spring
Love will rise again to heal your wings
Love heals the wings of a butterfly on a wheel
Love will heal the wings of a butterfly on a wheel..."
He lets the notes draw out, then, once the spell seems in danger of fading with the notes, Gwilym quickly says, "And on that note, noone's going to mind too very much if I pause for a cuppa, eh? I promise," his grin flashes across the adoring, "I'll be back after that. Whether you want me to or not, in fact. Enjoy."
There is a man sitting at one of the round tables, well away from the acolytes and sycophants. He is looking at you as you sing, at you and at times through you. At times through your song, he looked upon the air between himself and the stage, watching how his cigarette's smoke drifted toward you before falling back on him. His appearance is neither obscured by the smoke nor the darkness of the club. No matter how dark he is, how dark he seems, he is impossible to miss.
There is something on the air that runs from him to you. Without calling you by name, it invites you. Charisma backed with something else, indefinable.
His black hair is cut quite short, the thick darkness of it slightly but purposely mussed. His features are Michelangelic. Where others may indeed be handsome, appealing, he is beautiful. And he is looking directly at you, watching you as you leave the stage. The suit he wears sets him apart from most of the crowd (if his features did not do so already). It is black, partnered with a light shirt, the tie long since removed. Continental. Very.
Smoke eases between William's lips, that essential mouth, full even in the slightest of expressions. His coffee has grown cold, what is left of it. But he has an attending barista. He does not look at the barista refilling his cup. His focus may not be swayed.
The guitar is set down gently, off in the corner. Noone will make off with it. They wouldn't dare. (Alright, so maybe they would - the baristas'll keep an eye out all the same.) Gwilym makes his way towards the back of the club, eyes bright and inquisitive. He can feel something on the air. He isn't sure what it is - but he is aware of it all the same.
"Mind if I sit here?" The query is almost formulaic, his grin lighting up his eyes from behind. "Evening, Magda," that's to the barista, "could I trouble y' for a cup? You know how I like it."
"Yes," Magda coos back, "from behind, and black. - I'll see what I can do, Willy."
Gwilym barks out a laugh. "Hey, now, don't be getting you and me confused," he cracks as she moves away. He rests a hand on the back of the chair, red and gold of Cymru in uplifted eyebrows.
"Carais 'ch chyfieithiad chan Mercenary," the words are Welsh, but the accent is decidedly French. There may be a hint of Italian as well -- he certainly looks the part. He is olive-complected, dark in a dark club. Now that you are joining him at his table, you may see he is large -- both tall and broad. Taller than your papa. Taller than your father. And the last thing one might expect to hear from that mouth is the language of the Cymri.
William gestures for you to sit. Of course, please do, I did summon you. He smiles slightly but the slight smile carries an intensity. Indigo eyes flicker up to the barista at last as she is retreating. He is looking at you again, as if he is trying to place you. But surely you have never seen him before. You would have remembered this face, no? He flicks the dead ash from the burning end of his cigarette with the flick of a thumbnail on the cigarette's butt end.
"I have to admit, the other song... I did not know it," comes the languid sound of his voice, a smooth baritone that elongates the English he now speaks and turns it to a scrawl of flame. His smile spreads slightly. "Will Morgan, you said," he inclines his head, eyeing you with interest. "William d'Angevin," he offers in introduction. While he speaks English, it is most definitely not his primary language. The words are precise, chosen well, but the cadence is off.
But with that face, who is going to correct him?
The Welsh draws his eyebrows further up - surprise but humour all the same. He is unaware of having been consciously summoned; unconscious only is his awareness. "Nos dda," he says easily. His Welsh is, of course, perfect; if anything, it's a little old-fashioned. Used when talking to the grannies most, maybe.
He relaxes back into his seat; any chair he sits in, he steals, makes his own. Not by conquest but by guile; that could be his motto. "Mission UK as well," Gwilym answers your question (even though it was not spoken as a question), "Butterfly on a Wheel. Not one of their better-known works, but I've always had a soft spot for the lesser-known works; no matter who by. Things which take a keener eye and all that rot. Pleased to meet you." He offers a hand across the table, stretching so his wrist emerges from the soft brown leather. "Living local, or brought here by the music?"
He settles back from the handshake (his hand is large, and while the calluses of a sword-fighting inception to his life have faded over time, there are tell-tale signs of them for the initiated), and he stamps out his cigarette with a final exhale. He will take up the coffee eventually. He does not seem to be in an hurry to do much of anything.
Your question makes his eyes light as they lift to you from the curling smoke in the tray, and he grins. "By now, I am a local," surely after eight centuries, I may even be said to be a native, though I shall never admit that. "But I only discovered this cafe this week. I was brought by the people watching. The music was, however, a good soundtrack for it."
He lifts the cup for a sip. Dark eyebrows lift and he reaches for the sugar. He does not care if it is sacrilege. "I know several Morgans," his voice quietly rolls out. "I know a Kelly Morgan," your father's alias, "... I know a Sabrina Morgan. I like to drink Captain Morgan." William is looking at you as he lifts his cup for a sip again. Ah, better, his expression seems to say. He adds another cube of sugar just for good measure. "Are you by any chance related?"
"Butterfly on the wheel," he mulls that out, his voice making more of those syllables than they ever deserved. "Hmm... it is interesting. I had not heard that one. It is... what they say now... a deep cut." Amusement is a wash across those beautiful features.
It's a question he's been prepared for but which until now, hasn't ever come. There's no external hesitation, though, just the relaxed posture and the Welsh making interesting work of his mouth. "I've an uncle who's a Kelly Morgan - not sure of the exact relationship, might be something more like third cousin twice removed. Mum'd have my hide, but oh, well, what's one more thing on the list?" He laughs, glancing over to watch his coffee floating on a barista's tray from across the room. "We're a big family, and I suppose most of us're related, one way or another. Don't think I know a Sabrina, I'd have to ask."
He waits patiently for the coffee. The woman attached to the tray be damned, he wants his caffeine. "Captain Morgan's the one on the list I can definitely speak as to," Gwilym grins, "as the captain and I are old friends. My brawd's fond of ships, so every so often I bring him a bottle. He curses me and then he drinks it anyway."
Ah. Coffee. The barista gets no words, just a stunning smile; he's inherited both his parents' beauty in that regard, and he's still young enough to be profligate with it. "It makes a pretty basic point, I think," Gwilym remarks in his reply to you, canting his head to the side as he reaches for the sugar - a pause of his hand, as if to say, you done? Coming through, and then he takes the little tongs. Those always amuse him; he rolls them between his fingers, rattling them back and forth like some sort of magician's toy, flipping sugar cubes one by one into the coffee. "Namely, you can't expect love not to hurt. But it can be fixed up again, at least in theory; it only kills y' if the other person stabs you through the chest with a sword. Anything less, and it only feels like it's killing you."
The sheer vastness of Davydd's family is truly remarkable. The Morgans, the Llywelyns, the Herberts and who knows who else. So many nephews and cousins, distant and close. It suddenly reminds me that I miss my Welsh friend. I am going to have to rectify that. Somehow, it will have to be made new again. If restoration is my gift, I should choose to use it on the relationships that need mending instead of just the buildings of an old city.
"Who knows how many Kelly Morgans there may be. The one I know, he owns a pub locally. Black Jack Davy's. You should swing by to see him. He may be your cousin or cousin's uncle," he chuckles at that, it is a short laugh held in his throat. "And I know his uncle or....whatever he is. I'm never quite sure with Davydd ap Owain. He is a poet who tells stories," William explains, sipping at his coffee. "Sometimes he forgets Who he has told What."
That is the problem with Welsh embellishment. Or, as Edward would say, lying.
"Even I am a distant cousin, though very distant as you can see and hear, mais non?" He grins. The smooth pull of it may be felt as much as seen. It is devastating. Of such beauty that beauty is on the edge between pleasure and pain. Perhaps it is good that he keeps his mouth occupied. His coffee sipped, William sets the cup aside and reaches into his suit's interior pocket to remove the cigarettes and lighter. "You live in London? Or are you a touring musician? You are quite good. You have a charisma suited for a stage." Not even I could help but look at you. "Hmm... mais oui," he exhales smoke, looking down at the lighter momentarily before closing it. His features, made incandescent by the flickering flame's light, appear iconic. And then the halo fades in an instant. "Nothing hurts like love, in the having or the getting or the losing. Still," his lips form another smile, "... what we will not do to feel this pain, yes? Everyone in this room..."
Eyes widen, and then Gwilym laughs. "Oh, oes? Well, it's a big family, there's always some old uncle tucked in a corner telling tales. Wouldn't be a party if there weren't, would it?"
Like a cat sensing danger by the measurement and vibration of his whiskers, his nerves are suddenly jangling. If this is a close friend or an enemy of his papa's, for him, the danger is equally real. Unless there is some other link-up of Kelly Morgan and Davydd ap Owain - but that seems pushing the bounds of credibility. Wasn't he warned, after all, when he first came to London...
But perhaps he's overreacting - after all, as he knows well, his family is a sociable bunch. One can have met Davydd ap Owain and been impressed without knowing more to it than that. Gwilym waggles a hand. "In London as much as not," he says easily, rubbing a hand back through his hair. "Don't know that I tour so much as wander. Fame seems too much trouble to bother with. I play for the music - more to unwind, oes? Have something to push energy off into. Becoming famous would ruin it - Fame's such a bloody hungry beast, it has to be fed constantly, and look at how it wears the people down who're clutched in its claws. Diolch - I'll retain my ability to nip down to the pub without causing a riot."
There is the flash of that almost wasteful, almost profligate smile in all its beauty, and then it switches off, like a lamp. "Oes, well. Love's a dangerous beast, too."
Yes, you do know who I am talking about. "Mais oui. But it would be a very distant relative." One of the corners of his mouth lifts slowly upward. Very distant, indeed. "And by a distant marriage, long ago. Some one of his married some one of mine, I think is how it goes." He shrugs. It is neither here nor there, but his curiosity, it seems, is satisfied. He has placed you.
As you speak of energy, the one also named William nods his head slowly. In agreement? In understanding. "I think fame can be a burden on art. I am a painter. I am happy to paint in my obscurity. It is," he pauses there, his eyes narrowing in his concentration, "... it is an avenue of release for me. One that, if I did not have it, I think I would have gone insane. A touchstone, of a kind. Some have religion, others have drugs. I have art. I am naturally very high strung... I must be doing something," he gestures to himself, smoking, as if to illustrate that, even though his every motion, even his voice is languid -- seemingly so opposite to high-strung. "I would not be bearable without it."
I am barely bearable with it...
He rolls the cigarette in his fingers. While it is not hand-rolled it is nonetheless not everyday market material. It has an herbal quality, and something of cinnamon. "Did it call you, or did you reach out for it as a way of ... stilling yourself?" Stillness. Again. He smiles suddenly. "I am naturally inquisitive. You will pardon me if I ask you all of your business," he is amused at himself. He shrugs a little, more with a slight tilt of his head and the upraising of his eyebrows than with his shoulder. As if to say: What can I do?
Gwilym laughs at that, shaking his head. He's at ease again, though listening; watchful beneath the easy surface. "Well, they say we're all related if you go back far enough." He has no idea that with you, there is a dual relationship; once, through that long-ago marriage of his much-vaunted papa to your sister, and again through his mother, with the French and English flowerpot prettiness.
He nods as you speak about being high-strung. This is something he understands. "I'm a bit high-strung myself," Gwilym admits, not as if bragging but simply factual about it. "And I have too much of that energy in me. I haven't found a good way to balance it yet, so I just spend it as much as I can, in a de Balzac fashion." He grins, a sudden riot of amusement at the thought. "You know, I sometimes think people've forgotten how to live."
He picks up his coffee, taking a sip at long last and making a face; it could use more cream. "Oh, I don't mind talking. I'm Welsh, aren't I? If you want the truth, I saw a guitar in a shop window and I liked it, so I picked the lock of the shop, walked in, took down the guitar, put the money on the counter and walked back out. Music runs in my family, a bit. I think mum'd actually like it if I went on tour and tried to make something of myself with it, but I'll always be breaking her heart, poor creature," Gwilym half-croons it out, chuckling. "Music is ... it's just an outlet. One of many. I am very bad at being still. Should work on it more, I suppose."
You are faced with French skepticism at the mention of Balzac, and then amusement. "Sons are meant to break the hearts of their mothers," he waxes lowly, smiling at the edge of that saying with the curling smoke from the corners of his mouth. "It is what we do, no? Break the heart of women while we chase the hearts of men." He pauses, lifting an eyebrow. "Or maybe that is just me," comes the humored baritone, deep and soft. "I should not project my crimes out upon the world, yes?"
You shall not be dinner. He has come to this conclusion, and came to it, indeed, as soon as he placed you. He does not poach from the family tree. His heart has been twice broken by the red-heads of your family. Should he sip upon your blood and taste your family's origin? He might see himself. He might see Catherine, a woman whose memory he has sufficiently treasured and mourned. No, that business is done. Why resurrect it, even as a possibility? You are a part of Davydd's family, however extended, and thus a part of his own.
Were he the William of twenty or thirty years ago, this conversation would have had a different ending. He would have delved into your neck and given himself over to the possibility of tasting his Welsh wife's blood upon your own. You would have enjoyed it, but not survived it.
"Stillness is difficult. It is very difficult for me, so I understand. I suppose I found art as you found music. I was strolling in Florence one evening when the idea first came to me..." when I shook the hand of Leonardo. "I was about to say that it never involved breaking and entering but," William grins, "that would be a lie. I can say no more." As if he has to either protect his identity or stop himself before he confesses to a crime. "At least you paid for what you took. You did the right thing. See, your mother's heart would not be broken by that."
He stamps out the cigarette, its entertainment at an end. There is the warmth of amusement, the hovering of a smile, that comes over his expression. Yes, the Welsh do love their conversations. "William Morgan... Gwilym Morgan," he quietly corrects himself, "... from one Gwilym to another... I will say it has been a pleasure. I am afraid I must return home," to Kensington Palace, of all places. "I have someone who is waiting for me. But," and now he is paying for your coffee and his, "... I have enjoyed meeting you. Tell Davydd ap Owain that I will see him in Powis," he smiles now as he rises, and as he rises, he is a wonder to behold. Jupiter, Davydd calls him. And for a reason.
He does not elaborate. He expects your expression will do that for him, and then you will see what he already knows written upon his own.
"Ah, well, I try not to break mum's heart more than necessary. Da'd have my balls," Gwilym cracks. He is entirely unaware of your thoughts, your decisions - your dinner - as you speak, though his cheeks flush red indeed as you talk of chasing men. "Oes, well - bringing home a nice young man wouldn't thrill my family, no, though they might prefer it to my bringing home a nasty young girl." If he ever met Dot, for example. His mother would skin him alive if he went there.
He nods a little, not so slowly but comprehensively all the same, as you speak of stillness. "I'll manage it eventually. Plenty of time left, oes? Let's see, now, I'm twenty-... two? Or three. Where's a calendar when you need one." He's humorous about it to the end; as if it's just not very serious, not worth taking seriously. "Oh, mum's heart is a resilient thing. I tease her, but you know - I admire her all the same. She puts up with all of us and somehow keeps going, you know, and I'm not sure I'd do half so well. But she tried to do right by us, and for that, I'd lay my life down for her if I had to."
He stops, a bit surprised by his own emotion and its revelation. One doesn't think much about one's mother, usually, at this age; and to him, Fiona has always been just 'mum', queenship set aside from it. He shakes his head more slowly now, putting the thought away to be chewed at some more later on. "Well, it's been a pleasure," Gwilym grins as you rise, "and good luck getting home."
His eyes widen again at the mention of the name, and the location. "Powis? Not so sure I'd be let in if I went there, but I can try to get a message through, oes, certainly." He suppresses his reaction as much as possible, doing his damnedest not to let on that once you go, he'll be not running back to the miniature stage but to make a phone call home. His poker face is good; it has to be. But you are nine hundred and he is twenty. "Have a good one, eh?"
You are careful, yes, but I still see the surprise. Most would not notice it, young Gwilym. Among those of your age, you could likely spin any story you wished, at will, and be believed. He is putting away his cigarettes, his lighter as you speak about your mother. His dark eyes do not leap but they hold a warmth all the same. A warmth? A heat, it is better to say. He lingers a moment, lingers a look to you as the conversation, if humorously, touches on men. The corners of his mouth twitch nearly imperceptibly as he sees you blush.
Yes, William, you should go now. You should turn and leave this blushing boy alone. Go find your own young man, make him blush for you instead. Yes, that is right. At home, there is one waiting.
He chuckles, the sound held in his throat like a leonine purr. "The mothers of Welsh boys must be the most formidable upon this earth," comes the droll sound of very dry humor. "Second to French," he tacks on. "Hmm... I shall, you as well, mais oui?"
As he comes around the table, this Jupiter in London, he places a hand upon your shoulder. The large, Plantagenet paw has reached out and grasped many in its day, in both murder and affection. He pats you like an older brother would, like a father would and then he leaves you without saying anything else. Everything that needed to be conveyed was conveyed in that touch, that grasp.
He is powerful, but he is no enemy...
"Mum could face down death itself and make it think twice," Gwilym says proudly. "Even if she's only a little bit of a thing. She keeps us all in line with a smile. When she loses her temper, though," his eyes widen. "She'd strap on armour and go off to war without a second thought." And has, too.
You come round, you touch him, and there is the flare of panic and uncertainty. He does not know what to make of you, how to react to you. You know things, that much is plain; but what things? He holds his ignorance to himself protectively, but with an eye to getting rid of it sooner rather than later. And he stands his ground, smiling as he watches you leave.
Once you're gone, Gwilym looks speculatively at his leftover coffee. To the barista, he calls out, "Taking a few minutes longer; got a message from my mum, need to make sure it's no family emergency."
"Mama's boy," the barista says sardonically, with a flick of a coffee saucer. "Go on. Try to impress some other girl; I like them big, bad and dangerous." Her gaze looks pointedly to where the tall Frenchman had been sitting, and it draws a Welsh chuckle. But a distracted one, as he takes his cell out of his pocket, sliding towards the loo.
It isn't his mother's number that's being punched in, though, but rather, his papa's...
Papa's got a brand new bag...
Across town, in a part of London only really visited by Londoners, Davydd ap Owain, called Llywelyn, is sitting in the private dining room of a pub, grinning victoriously. The cards have come his way tonight. He's made a nice bit of scratch, as they say.
But that all comes to an end when his phone rings. "Scuse me, gents," he announces to his Ventrue fellows, "I have to take this one."
When the phone is answered (on the third ring), you can hear him chuckling in the background. There's ice in a glass and other male voices laughing and continuing their conversation. "Ah, boyo," caller ID is a wonderful thing, "... what can I do you for?" His lilting tone is rough, earthy. He's smoking and drinking and playing cards, from the sound of it.
"Nah," he says to the others around him, "... I'm out. I'll take my winnings as-is. No need to completely beat you sods into the ground. So," that's to you, "... bonnie prince Willie," he likes that! Now's your chance, son, better make the most of it.
Davydd rises from his seat, shaking his head as someone in the background says: "Is that Willamena?" Then the background noise lessens. "Sorry, boyo, can you hear me now then?"
Gwilym is increasingly less at ease than he'd like to be. "Oes, I can hear you." It's less about where you are and more about how you're going to take this piece of news. "Listen, I have a message for you."
He can beat about the bush, or he can take it like a man and hope you don't kill him for it - figuratively even if not literally. "Ran into someone tonight who says he knows you. He asked me to give you a message."
He is being careful with his words. He can hear you. But he knows how sharp your hearing is; who knows how sharp the hearing of those you're with might be? So he doesn't call you 'papa', he doesn't call you anything, in fact. He tries to keep his fret from his voice. "William d'Angevin says he'd like to meet with you at Powis."
He can have no way of knowing how you will react. Will this be a bombshell, or not. So all he can do is deliver the message, and wait, squirming inside his skin and hoping you can't hear him squirm.
There's silence on the other end for half a second. Seems like ten minutes. You can hear the men in the other room laughing loudly again. "William's an old friend of mine," he says. "He mentioned Powis, did he." He must have seen you coming ten miles down the road. "Well, I suppose then I better call him."
Davydd pauses again and in the silence he listens to you. Listens to the sound of your voice. What you say and don't say. "Did he rattle you a bit?" he wonders. "He's like that. He is sort of like... hmm... what's the best way to explain Gwilym. He is like a lion, oes? And the rest of the world are like mice. He likes to play with people. But he's a good man, and you've nothing really to fear of him. He must have ... placed you on the family tree somewhere. I know you wouldn't have told him anything."
Once lectures are given, he assumes they're followed...
"To say he is astute is an understatement. It's no fault of your own, Gwi if he knows more than you wish him to know. It's a gift he has," comes the sardonic drawl. "To be honest,," Davydd exhales, "... I should have just introduced you to the man whose name you wear. But ... things have been ... it just never materialized." He doesn't go into it, but there's more to this story.
"I am encouraged he mentioned Powis," he lilts quietly, to himself mostly. He forgets you're an audience. Then: "But there's nothing for you to worry about. I appreciate you calling me to let me know. You're a good man, Gwilym. So... what did you think of him?" He rumbles a laugh. "Most men piddle themselves...."
He relaxes a little. "Didn't tell anything, no," Gwilym agrees. "You know me; I'm too young and careless to give a damn about family, let alone placing every last damned cousin. He asked if I knew Davydd ap Owain and Kelly Morgan. And Sabrina Morgan. Told him I don't much keep track, though my mum'd have my scalp if she knew."
He tilts his head to one side. Namesake? Really? "That explains that," Gwilym murmurs, then he answers you instead. "He seemed - pleased, on the whole. In an easy sort of mood. We talked a bit about music, art, love - what did I think? He probably has an easy time getting anything he thinks he wants, and finds out then that it's not the easy things which he wants. Though seems he's gotten that notion down. Still working on it, myself."
What else do I think? I don't know. I'd have to talk to him more - but I'm not sure I'd care to. "No urine on my boots," Gwilym says lightly. "Just made me a bit paranoid. Aren't mum and Peter still at Powis?"
"Yeah," he answers. "William wouldn't arrive at Powis unannounced. Particularly as he knows I'm in London. I think it was his way of saying that he wanted to see me. It's been a while. A year, maybe two since we've been in the same room. I talked to him a couple of months ago... he wrote a letter from Venice. Anyway, I wouldn't worry about it. I trust William with my own life. He's saved it more than once. And since he's placed you in the family, then you've nothing to worry about. If he seemed pleased, at ease... then I'd take it as such. Now, if he had lured you into a dark bar or sommat or...invited you to his gallery or his limo or some-such, then you run like mad for the hills, boyo." He's chuckling at that. "And don't look back!"
Your papa exhales smoke like a dragon who lives in chimneys. "But he's a good man, as I say. In his heart. Sure, he's dangerous... deadly... but for family? You couldn't have a better friend. I couldn't have. And I've been lucky to know him at all.""
I should tell William, and I should tell Edward too. That's my son there, Edward-bach -- and I named him for you. See there that young man with the killer smile? That's my grandson there, William-bach -- and I named him for you. That's the conversation I should have had over the bonnie little cribs. Is it too late, i wonder?
"So, don't worry. You can be paranoid all you want; it's healthy. So long as you don't dig into his personal life or don't let him fuck you, you should be alright. And...well, he's complicated," he says to your impression. "He's... not to be trifled with. But respect him, show him respect, and he'll show you the world. I do know that. Not that I'm suggesting you spend time with the man." Now, he certainly isn't. But you shouldn't have to worry over having met him.
"Duw's teeth!" You speak and you go on and Gwilym's blushing furiously, colour high. You can't see it, but maybe you can inference it. "He didn't invite me into any dark alleys, no, and I wouldn't have gone, all the same. But - well, I won't pry, then. He asked after da, too, Kelly Morgan. Should I tell him or will you?"
He leans against the tiled wall, scowling a little at himself; perplexed rather than angry, but letting it slide all the same. "Alright, alright - you've the message, papa. I'm going to go back over, spend some time with Io then. Unless there's anything you need me to do?"
He is over-all, unworried; unconcerned. If you say there's nothing to worry about in this, then he'll take your word for it. You should know; better than he does, for certes. "Give mum a hug for me when you see her, oes?"
Your grand-da is laughing at your reaction. "I suspect you'd be a bit smarter than that, oes. And, yeah, don't follow him. You don't want to know. And, no, that's alright. He might pop by Davy's to pay his respects, but there's nothing your da should know in advance. William arrives, he gets free drinks, he smokes, he leaves." He's starting to sound like a mafia don, isn't he? Ha! Well, I guess in a manner of speaking...
"Diolch," Davydd rumbles, "... you have a good evenin'. I'm going to head back to my Guinness and bourbon. "I'll be sure to give her a hug from you," he croons on, "... give your brawd a slap on the back from his da, oes? And when I see you, I'll get a hug in for m'self. You're a good lad. Thanks for the message. Nos dda, Gwi-bach," and that comes with the gentle warmth of your grand-da's heart. He does love you like mad. "Nah, g'on. Enjoy your night, oes? Go do whatever it is young men do," he rumbles.
"Alright, I will. Nos dda, papa." And that's that. Gwilym hangs up the phone, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he shrugs. Why stress over it? It's a bit of information, filed away somewhere behind the emeralds of his eyes; nothing need be done about it. It isn't even his world, really. And he has other places to be. Other things to do.
The phone's clicked shut, dropped into a pocket as he returns to the main room. Another song, and then he'll go somewhere that none here can follow. Slip between worlds, take the form of a hawk, a crow, a scurrying rat - scamper and fly and run and glide until he's found his way to his brother's house, listen at doors to see if time's right or wrong for visitation.
No getting stuck for six hours again...
Posted by rowan at October 21, 2006 06:59 PM
