The letter was written pensively and with many false starts. The grate of his fireplace began to resemble nothing so much as the bombing of Saigon, with sudden flares of fire as parchment pieces are hurled viciously every so often towards the flames. It took a long time to write; and less alcohol than one might suspect. But finally it was completed, and then Gwilym Gwyn Garu was faced with a new decision : having written his missive, will he actually send it?
That took more alcohol than writing it did. After half a bottle of wine to himself, finally Gwilym summoned up a hawk of unusual size and with powerful, brown and white flocked wings. The parchment sheets were rolled, tied with green ribbon, and presented to the yellow-eyed bird. "To the /future/ high king," he tells it, emphasizing which it is to go to; son, not father. "To Iowerth Rhudd Draig. Go on. Get going with you, will you?" As the bird flapped mightily and then dove out the window, he stood leaning against the sill, watching its progress until it was out of sight. "Well," Gwilym murmured to himself, "there's still hope. It might get shot down, oes? Only he would be able to open it, after all; so that is safe enough. Ah, why do I do this to myself?"
There was only one recourse open, short of transforming himself into another, larger hawk yet and tearing off after the messenger; and that was to go and get drunk properly. And so he exchanged indoor clothes for outdoor, sliding as one shadow among many until he reached the red light district of his mother's home city.
It is always easy to find an open tavern or brothel there, oes? And Gwilym is hardly an unknown figure here, among the fleshpots. With his mind in need of distraction, he moved from one high-stakes game of cards to another, accepting drinks wherever offered short of openly poisonous. Finally, he has ended where he is now; a half-naked girl on his lap, her bared breasts visible to anyone in the room save for where one of his hands absently fondles it, his other hand moving between tiles in front of him, a substantial pile of gold and gems, and his drink. There are others both in the game and watching it - and he? He is absorbed for the moment. C'est la bonne vie, oui?
Over village, over bay, across ocean and to island the hawk flew. The Twelve Islands of the future kingdom, the Court of the Crescent Moon, are lit this evening with torches and lamplight. The coronation nears and the piers are teaming with the arrival of a multitude. What is one more hawk among so many thousand sails?
As the hawk -- more eagle than peregrine -- appeared soaring over the palace's atrium, the seneschal tried to shoo it out, waving his arms wildly and kicking up his robes as he danced and jogged along. The bird would not be dissuaded from its duty. The message was to reach one set of hands, and one set alone. Steward and seneschal, servant and sycophants looked up at the arrival of the messenger, and auger's drew portents from the dappled feathers.
Upon the summit of the palace, at the very summit of the high plateau, Iowerth stood, his gaze moving out over the sea and the stars reflected on its surface. Stars exist both above and below the water here where the oceans once ended. He looked up as the hawk approached, his hand coming out to take the letter as it was dropped, and turning from his view of his kingdom he cracked the seal and opened the letter...
Such words, such weight, such worries. He read each one, heard the ones you did not write, and he sighed. Such things you worry about, such things you think you control, that all of it should be your fault...
From the atrium of his palace, down the stairs to the main royal residences, the future king strode, and though he was expected for a state dinner with newly arrived emissaries, such matters will have to wait. The seneschal and steward, the servants and sycophants were as unsuccessful in stopping Iowerth Rhudd Draig as they had the bird before...
The Draigamor stood proudly with sleeping sails in the king's berth at the royal pier one moment, but as he stepped aboard the sails unfurled and the dragons hailed his arrival and the ship pushed out to sea. Once in the bay, it disappeared altogether, riding the whirlpools until the sea coughed it up unmolested off the shores of the Ever-Flowering Kingdom.
Come to the docks, my brother. comes the King's voice in your head, along your heart, sliding against your skin. I sit docked and waiting. I need to see you. As much as you need to see me. He is here? Was he not on his island? It has not been an hour since the great bird left your hand...
Your summons has caught him by surprise. He wasn't expecting it; the flavour of his surprise travels along his thoughts to be tasted by you, even from the docks. He almost drops his tiles (to say nothing of the girl). You didn't have to hurry on my account, he sends back to you, tone warmly humorous - but you can feel the desperation, the defensiveness the tone hides, now, can't you. All right, I'll be on my way shortly.
The last tile is slid into place, turned over. "Well, chaps," Gwilym says as easily as if his heart were not straining against his ribs, "time for me to go. No darlin'," he smiles halfway at the girl in his lap, all sloe-eyed and kittenish and pouting, "you can't go with me. I'm sure there's some nice fellow here," he almost barks a laugh, "who will be happy to take you off my hands." He spins her out as he stands, in the direction of a pointy-eared young man who might well be well in his hundreds. "I'll take my gold," that makes any number of people groan as the pot begins to diminish, "but! As I'm leaving early, I'll be nice and contribute a few hundred gold suns to the party."
The groan turns into a cheer, and it's with pockets lined with gold and rubies that your brother strolls from the tavern. He gives no time to footpads; as convenient an excuse as it would be, he knows full well that you would recognize it for what it is. A diversion. A time-waster. Instead, he clothes himself in shadows, disappearing and reappearing on the bow of your ship.
Alright, Gwilym calls to you silently, moving out of shadows and then in, until he steps into your cabin, where he anticipates you will be. "I'm here... what do you want?"
He is standing on the ship, on the stern deck above the captain's quarters. The light from his lavish quarters lights his eyes, reveals his form and figure. He is wearing his captain's coat, and though he is nearing his mid-twenties, the coat gives him an ageless look. He has worn it since he was ten -- it once dragged the ground. It now fits him perfectly, his shoulders the perfect breadth for them, the coat tapering at his waist as if it were tailored for him at this precise moment.
In your defensiveness, you accuse him, but he does not react to it. The words in your letter are beaming in his eyes, shining in that periwinkle, flickering in that lavender. You step up to him, into the light of his cabin with him, and he closes the door behind you. On the stair, your brother pulls you into an embrace. He is shaking -- is it in anger?
When the hug is parted, you know he is not angry. He is emotional, without a doubt, but it is an emotion of multiple facets and all things at once. "I left a crowd of emissaries trailing behind me in my dust," his strained voice speaks. "I ... you will never lose me, Gwilym. Never." He draws you in again with the breath of that word 'never', his hand on the nape of your neck, your forehead touching his own. "And I do not care that you are afraid of losing me. I am afraid of losing you. But I tell you as well as I tell myself -- it will not happen, Gwilym. I love you too much to ever let you go."
His arms surround you and you are drawn in against his form, his captain's coat. "I have to tell you these things, even though I know you will not believe them at first. But I will repeat them, I will repeat them for a thousand years if that is what it takes, brawd, until you hear them, until you believe them. You ... you are not to blame. You are not to blame for your position, for mine, or Duw... certainly not our parents' comings and goings. I am sorry... I never knew... how much it bothered you. How it must have seemed to you."
His words end in a tangled breath, his breath against your cheek, his mouth parting against your skin there, fumbling and feeling its way to your mouth. "We ... will always have one another. I am here... I am here to prove this to you. You call... I answer... you need, I appear... " There is wetness on his mouth, the cool wetness of oceanic spray (tears) as his mouth brushes, open, against your own and pushes and pries a kiss.
Shattering, his emotions at your mouth, like storm-surging waves against a rocky shore...
You are shaking. What is it? What have I done wrong? Are you alright? Duw, brawd, what is it...
The thoughts tumble through his mind even as you grab him. It is not until you release him that he can breathe again, looking at you as you hold him nearby. His eyes shine with too much emotion; yours, reflected in his attentive gaze. But he cannot speak. Not right away.
No, certainly not right away.
Clumsily, his hands go to your shoulders, and he rasps a breath deep in his chest. "I told you in it," Gwilym says finally, his voice hoarse with the strain of it, "not to pay it too much attention, oes? I know I was a stupid child. Not as smart as you, certainly." He laughs, though the sound is shaky. "Just - knowing it now, does not change what I felt then. These are the things that shape us, brawd. And knowing how I was shaped... I can't blame anyone. Certainly not you. YOu have always been there for me."
You press into him, and wetness is met with wetness. Damnation. He was trying to hold his emotions at bay; but it only works just so far. His hands are trembling where he grasps at you, mouth opening to the kiss. It never bothered you. So ... I knew I was stupid to be bothered. That's all...
"I don't want you to think that you are alone... I don't want you to run off into shadows where I can't see you, can't find you," Iowerth breathes between you, his mouth tumbling down your chin before returning to your mouth. "And I know it is uncomfortable, it is aching, it is hard to be parted. I feel it too, I do. Please... Gwi... do not ever think you are alone. And do not think that ... because I have Tiernan that... I do not feel also the same worry that you have, that I might lose you to this... Jupiter person. I am happy for you, if you've found someone to be with when we cannot be together, I am. But there is a part of me... there has been a part of me that has wondered if I should see you again. Please understand that I understand. Oes?"
His hand brushes against your hair as he kisses you gently and draws you in to him again. "I understand, brawd. I do. And you are not stupid, not then, not now." He takes you by the shoulder and shakes you a little. "Stop that shite. Duw," Iowerth exhales, his face red in his emotion, shiny where the water has leaked from his eyes down his cheeks and chin. "I want to just shake you until those words rattle inside your brain and take root finally!" His hands come up to rub his eyes, to wipe the evidence of tears away. His hand on your shoulder, patting, your brother begins walking down the stairs with you.
"I hate that we are not together always. I know it is unreasonable to ask it, it is unreasonable to expect it, even to want it. But ... I have to remind myself that we are together always, even if we are not physically present. For where can my voice not reach you? Where could yours not reach me? I am glad you... released what you were carrying. I never quite realized just how full your hands were," Iowerth suddenly notes, his head turning to look at you as he walks.
You are led to the sofa, where the future king sits, taking you with him. "We are not to blame for how things have gone for us. How things are between us. We were all we had for chunks of time. It was beyond even Their Power," the three parents, "... to avoid. That is the nature of walking two worlds. You are not responsible for that. I understand how it is has driven your behavior. It has driven me to work too hard, to explore too far, all these things that I do. I am just.... all over the place with emotion," Iowerth rolls his eyes at himself. He rolls out of the captain's coat. "I don't like being parted from you. I hate it," he looks to you, periwinkle eyes brilliant in their intensity. "I hate it," Iowerth whispers.
"When I run, it isn't because of you," Gwilym tries to explain, a hand moving against the side of your neck. "It is because of what is in me, oes? I am a hollow man, Io. It isn't your fault. There is nothing you could have done to change who I am. It is on me. On me, to try and figure things out, try to decide who and what I am, who and what I need to be. For you, you always had that purpose ahead of you. I don't know how crushing you may have found its weight; you never have said. But I've been left more or less to my own devices, except for when papa wanted us over there. And neither of us could fit, over there; not quite. I still can't. I only go over there because I don't feel I fit perfectly here, either."
He pats your hip unsteadily, his other hand coming up to rub at his own face. His shoulders sag, as if suddenly he is so very tired. "My burden isn't more than yours," he says quietly, heading down into the belly of the ship with you. "If anything, it is considerably less. I do not deal with dignitaries and the like. How diplomatic I have to be is largely decided at sword-point." He sits heavily, turning to look at you with his own intense attentiveness, emeralds to your periwinkles.
"I don't blame them, you know," Gwilym says quietly. "I don't blame anyone." His hand reaches out, pats your leg, withdraws slowly. "It is what it is, oes? And we are as we are. But I ... struggle ... in one trap or another. And eventually ... it gets too much for me, and I have to - go places, and - do things - until I can endure it again. My ... Jupiter, as you term him ... he seems to understand it, even without being told. I don't know how. I suppose because he is older than I am, and his life has been as different," he chuckles, a queer low laugh, "as different as night and day, oes?"
He shakes his head, lowering his face to his hands for a moment, then looking back up at you. "I am not a healthy person to know," Gwilym says softly. "I burn brightly, maybe, but darkly, too. I pull people in. Even you, brawd. And - I would do anything to keep you safe."
"I know," Iowerth murmurs. Sitting forward, he rests his elbows on his knees. For that moment, his head rests in his hands. And then a hand reaches out for you. "And I pull those into my orbit, any who stray into the whirlpool's edge," he whispers. "I can destroy as easily as I create, perhaps easier. As it is with each and every man or woman, I believe, with or without magic, brawd."
Sitting back, Iowerth closes his eyes. "You are empty," he murmurs, "...and I would do anything... anything to fill you." Anything, he mouths. "I come to you," Iowerth continues on a breath, "... I seek to fill you because then our darker natures can collide. All that we are, good and ill, can blend together. We save the world in no small part when we are together, sparing the rest of the world."
If he weren't so emotional, that might have come with a smirk. But there is no smile. He means it.
"I know it has been hard for you. Not to have a path made for you. I do not think my path is any harder than your own. But I know... from past experience, with Tiernan... that I cannot make your path for you. I cannot fill you... I cannot give you purpose. You must do that, Gwilym. Nothing I do will ever be enough," his voice strains on that. "Nothing, but...know that I would give anything...anything for you to be solid where you are hollow, to feel peace, where you ache... to be loved and to love. I want that for you so much. And it tears at me, brawd, to hear you speak of yourself disparagingly... to read or know such things. I cannot bear you speaking ill of yourself. Because you ... you are so brilliant. You are so smart. Your advice so sound, when you decide to give it. You are amazing. Truly amazing."
I want to fill you. I want to pour my oceans in you until the salt passes the brim, until you cough up water. Closing his eyes nightly, his face contorting in his emotion, Iowerth groans. And he rolls over, his mouth finding yours, parting yours widely beneath his own to feel the spiraling of his tongue around yours. The whirlpool sucks strongly against your tongue. Like a spasm, it draws you in. I can't stand it. His mouth tightens, the kiss turning rough and wild. Wild as swirling seas, strange as chaos, twice as dark.
"I do not think that I can be filled," Gwilym admits, the words quiet. He speaks as quietly as you; not as if afraid of being overheard, but as if the force and strength of emotion is overpowering volume. He reaches his hand out to take your own, squeezing it. "I love you. It is not fair, oes? This world or any other. Any world we could occupy, it is the same. That what we have and what we are is regarded as forbidden. But I want what I want."
He stops speaking, tipping his head towards yours, hands coming up to cup your face. I don't think I have a path, Io. I wander eternally. Peter Pan and Puck, oes? But I've never wanted a Wendy as a surrogate mother. I wanted our mother, and when I couldn't have her, I turned inwards. Outwards in seeming, but I became a mirror for other people's desires. You do not know what I do. And it is just as well.
His mouth presses against yours, pulling against you and then away. "You say I am so many things," Gwilym whispers, shaking his head slowly. "And I don't see it. I don't see it at all, brawd. I wish I could see this mythical paragon of virtues you see - but I look in the mirror, and I still see just myself."
Your kiss comes, and your unspoken words which still are heard, and he groans in answer. Hands go to your shoulders; then to your waist, helping you to roll against him, tangling into your kiss with thorny darkness. I always need you. You know that, oes?
The kiss is ended with a crashing breath. He pulls free, leaning back and giving you his arm instead. I should be holding you, not using you. Drawing you in to him, Iowerth holds you. "And I always need you," he murmurs. "I should not, but I do. You are my twin, Gwi, and the only one who can make sense out of my ... emotional ramblings. I've made no sense tonight." He exhales, closing his eyes. "I was just so... touched by your letter, by your pain. I am sorry, brawd. I am sorry you ever felt the burden, or that by my kiss, by this hold even," Iowerth whispers at your ear, "I burden you. We burden each other."
His hand ends up in your hair, fingers losing themselves in the red-gold strands. "We have been... we are all we have in some ways. I have another, you have another. At the end of the day, it's still you and I. You must believe," his grip tightens slightly, "... you must believe, Gwi, that I love you. More than I should, in ways I should not, but thoroughly and completely, in all ways love can be experienced and shared. You must believe, if you believe nothing else, that you are loved. One night, one day maybe you will look up and you will understand why. For now... just... believe it."
He does not kiss you again. He holds you. "I am sorry for man-handling you," he chuckles suddenly, sniffing up the remainder of leaky facial waterworks. "Of this... manic performance that it has been." His fingers massage the nape of your neck. "I thought you were in danger. And you know how I get when you're in danger."
Iowerth sighs, his hand stroking your hair. He leads your head to rest against his shoulder as you sit side by side on the sofa. "You were not given a kingdom because I think your path... is a greater path than kingdoms. I have seen it. You battling a greater darkness. I am here, oes? To hold this in place, to provide order. But that was never what interested you. That was never your energy. You, Gwilym, are not me. But just because you are not me does not mean there is nothing worthy about being YOU. That's a ridiculous argument, and it's simply not true."
"You do not burden me." The protest comes immediately - at once. He looks to you, smiling lopsidedly, and one arm slides around your waist as he leans in against you. "But danger - I am always in danger, Io." He closes his eyes, groaning as he leans his weight in against you. "From myself most of all. I move through the shadows, and when it is daylight, it means only that the dangers to me are the less opaque. The light creates shimmers and reflections that can blind me; for all that I have always done my best to keep my heart safely out of harm's way."
He lets you hold his weight without self-consciousness; with the assuredness of there being no eyes watching him, none but yours. His eyes are still wet with emotion, depths of which still remain unreleased. "I don't know what my path is, Io," he whispers. Even if you were not alone, only you would hear this. "What I do, I know, I do because it is dangerous. It is a different kind of glamour from yours. A little part of me always seeks the knife's edge, oes? In one form or another."
There is more that he would say, if he could; but not yet. He stops his tongue with a brief, almost spastic look of frustration, then tightens his arm for a moment around your waist. "I don't want you to think that you are the cause of this," Gwilym says finally. "You aren't. Neither is Tiernan. I am as I am, and it is not your fault, even if you are a king and thus will constantly seek the blame!" His other hand spanks against your thigh for emphasis. "You are my brother, my other. I love you, and nothing is going to change this, Io. I am at my best when I am being strong for you."
"And you are my star, reminding me...constantly," his lips curl with some amusement, "...of my path. I would be lost without your light. Please... do not take it away from me. I do not expect to see it every night, but I must know it is there, somewhere in the heavens."
You lean on him, he leans on you. It is a physical representation of the emotional bond. "I know you are always in danger. But I believe... I believe that you are meant to walk that road. You navigate risk and danger with a dancer's grace. Who else but you? Not even your father is as nimble. There is much to do, much to contend with in that darkness, brawd. But your path will present itself when it is meant to. You cannot force it. It was not forced on you. And ... I think your father knows this. You will find it, your own way. Not even he can show it to you."
His fingers move through your hair again, gently now. Iowerth opens his eyes, looking to you. "Nothing will change my heart from you. You cannot be replaced. A jewel can be stolen. But a star? Never," he whispers. "For you are carved on my skin and in my soul. You are there, you are with me, you always will be. I will try not to worry about you when you are away. I will hope you can find respite in another from time to time. And when you are ready to see me... you will find me. I have no doubt of that. And I... I know where to find you. In the Center of All Things."
He snorts at that. "You give me too much credit. Da's far better at this shite than I am, you know," Gwilym drawls out. His hand pats at your hip again, movements clumsy with his emotion. "I wish that I could see you ever night, you know that, oes?" It echoes in his eyes, aching there; and then he sits up.
"I wish I knew what to do," he admits. "Io, that is half the trouble, for me. I do not know what to do. Maybe it is - is some lack, in me, or some failing of morality or understanding. I do things my own way, as I have for all these years. It began in defiance and it became something else. I have thought, occasionally, about - carving a piece of territory out. Or conquering some wild and untamed land, more or less single-handedly. The ideas I have, they border on the suicidal, but if there is a way for it to be, I know I could bring it into being. But I never do them. I don't know why; I just do not."
He stands, now, turning to you, bending and placing his hands on your shoulders. "I stay away ... more than I should," Gwilym admits it, finally. "Maybe that will change, now. I don't know. I know so little, Io. You always seem to know things, understand things which leave me struggling far behind you in the dust."
"Only because I am not you." Periwinkle eyes fix on you. And though he, as you, are heading toward the mid-twenties of your lives, he looks as earnest as he did when he was ten. "I see you. As you see me. You point things out to me that I should bloody well know, or that I am too close to see. I do not know more than you know. But I see you from the outside, as you will never be able to see yourself."
Iowerth nods shortly, "I know it is difficult for you to be around too much. Too emotional. Too everything. I know, Gwi. You are restless. You are a star, oes? What star is ever still? Hmm? They may look still but they are not. They are in constant motion in a universe of constantly moving things. I understand why you are not, but I miss you, brother, when you are not near. I want you... in my life. I want to be able to know you are there with me. That I look over and can see you or feel you nearby. To laugh as we once did, when we were free boys. I need you there as a reminder of who I am, not what I am becoming. But... that is selfish," he smiles at last. "You must be where it makes you happy to be. That is what I want for you."
He looks at you as you stand. Iowerth remains seated on the sofa. "I do not know why either. If I did, I would tell you. You are going to have to live, to discover these things on your own, I think. But you can always talk to me about them, about your doubts, your hopes. They are safe with me, brawd. Always."
"Duw, be glad that you are not me!" His eyes widen, and for a moment, he barks a laugh, shaking his head. And he sits again, sits next to you, sprawls against you with eyes closing. "It is not just the emotions. It is the staying in one place, seeing all the people around you, and they make me impatient, brawd. So many of them are so slow, so transparent. I see them and I see right through them. I know what they want and how they will try to get what they want. And you have to endure it, but I can't; it's like trying to take off my skin with my fingernails, after a while."
That was a bit graphic, even for him. He makes a face up at you, settling his head in your lap. You are my one constant, Io. The words come finally. The one person in the world who I can spend time with and not need to hide. But even I am afraid of showing you everything, as with that letter. I do not want to hurt you with my words, with the truth of who and what I am, what I do. I ... care about you enough to want to give you illusions.
He sighs, canting a bright-eyed gaze up at you again. "We should spend more time together," Gwilym says finally, a hand shifting to rub your side. "Away from our jobs. Whatever our jobs might be. Just do not make me one of your jobs, brawd. I know you - need to fix things which are broken."
"I have learned... that I cannot do that. I tried with Tiernan and could not. He had to do that," Iowerth murmurs, looking to you as you sit next to him again. "I will have to just let you be you, whatever that is. I will love you regardless. And I do," he smiles. "Even when you are being evasive." You know how I don't like that, says the look.
But he knows you're helpless to do otherwise.
"I know," he says after a moment. "I know that you care enough to give me the courtesy of a delusion. But I don't want illusions from you. You are the one person with whom I should not have to worry about a mask. Be not a courtier. Be my brother. Do not spare me. I am not here to be spared. I am here to love you, to support you. If you are truthful to no other, be at least truthful with me. No matter my feelings."
His hand grasps yours for a moment. "And I promise you, you will not become another job to me. You and Tiernan... you are my delights. My treasures. And I will be careful. I have heeded your advice. And I will continue to do so. I will not work myself into a mouth-foaming frenzy. That will not serve anyone, least of all myself."
Exhaling, hands going to his thighs, Iowerth looks at you. "Would you like a drink? Some mead?"
"Alright," Gwilym whispers. He was silent so long, perhaps you thought he had fallen asleep. "Alright, I will ... try not to give you illusions, brawd. But some things, I ... cannot say, directly. You will have to riddle them, puzzle them out. One way or another. But I will give you the opportunities to understand."
He closes his eyes against a sudden return of emotion, wet and warm, and he rolls on his side - inwards, towards you, burying himself for a moment in your warmth. It is comforting, that warmth.
I will try. There are few people I would promise even this much to, Io. But you ... I would do anything for you, if only I could.
Then, and only then, does he sit up, hands going to his thighs, rubbing there as he bows his head forward and then tips it back. "Drink? Oes ... I think I need several drinks. I think I need to get drunk. I was considering it when you called. And," he glances to you, a smile skewing almost fiercely in your direction, "what better company for it? Hook me up!"
Posted by rowan at December 08, 2006 09:21 PM
