"There she stands, this lovely creature
     There she stands, there she stands
     With her hair full of ribbons
     And green gloves on her hands ..."
     He is singing to keep himself company. And why not? There is no one else around to hear him. Not that his voice is bad; quite the opposite. But he does not care, no, not tonight, not Gwilym Gwyn Garu. He is in a mood to defy all in self-pity, in a perversity of mind and spirit alike.
     "So I asked this lovely creature, yes," he is on foot, picking his way far from the constructed city from where his brother rules. Here, the shadows have formed, but none have yet come to take charge of them; the smugglers and burglars and thieves, the cutthroats and reprobates of every worst description. Here is one, one on his own. Dressed not in interest of hiding but in rich green and black leathers, a scarlet and bone white stag embossed upon his back - thus is Gwilym, thus he marks his presence as with his voice.
     Marking time, that is what I am doing. Making my way around the island, figuring out where everything is - where the smugglers and pirates and bandits will try to make their nests, where they will plan their assaults. Why? Do people deserve to be protected? My brother would say yes. Most days, so I would say yes, too. To a degree; I am, after all, a thief myself, and other people's money lines my pocket.
     On the one hand, it saves the family from providing me with as much of a royal stipend. On the other hand, I am - and will be, diolch - a thief.
     A hand comes up, pushing longer strands of fine red-gold hair from his eyes as he scans his surroundings. He is not spoiling for a fight, but he would not turn one down if it came his way. It is all energy to be expressed, expelled, one way or another.
     It is no closer to finding me what I need to find. I tell myself, be patient. Instead? I endure, without excitement, patience becomes endurance. Ah, well - time to stop thinking about it...

     A banner made not of cloth but of shadows catches your eyes. It snaps soundlessly, its tatters wavering in the ocean breezes on its pole stuck in the stone. It is aged, this banner, and it has seen better days... better epochs. It has the shape, what one may yet discern of its shape, of an old Roman banner. It was square once, and it once heralded a mighty chieftain or maybe even an emperor or two. But it and the earth are in tatters now. So much warfare, so few victories.
     It stands a herald even now, waving in blatant presence no less bold than elephants marching through the alps. Where thieves might cling to their shadows like moss to a rock, the one whose banner there flies has no thing, no reason to hide.
     Lower than the banner -- there, blending against the shadows and the sea-cut stones is the rippling of dark fabric, a long cloak with a prominent cowl. The figure seen there stares out at the sea, away from the bay, facing the specter and the promise of eternity. The horizon has no edge. There is no, in fact, no horizon. He sits there, he does not move, and he listens.
     And he waits...

     Hello. This is odd. Gwilym comes to a halt. Someone is trying to get his attention - or, if not, has it anyway. Shadows are his province, aren't they? And here, of all places. He shifts his stance, then curiously, he turns first his head and then his body in the direction of the banner.
     He climbs and walks, crouching and then shrugging off subtlety as if it had no place here. Why be subtle? "Hulloa, the camp!" Gwilym cups the side of his mouth, calling it out as he reaches the perimeter.
     Am I courting disaster? Is this suicide? What am I looking for? Ah, well, once a fool and all that...
     He slows his pace, nonetheless, staying some small distance. In hailing range, but not trespassing. His hands slide into his pockets, then come back out again - empty of weapons, see? He holds them up and out as proof. "Good day to you." Recognition sparks, albeit slight. Draconis. It must be, surely, with that cowl, that cloak. "You've saved me some trouble. I was going to seek you out. May I approach?"

     The head turns toward you, the cowl not giving away its mysteries, and he motions you forward with little more than a turning of his head in its original direction. A slight motion of his hand gestures to a nearby rock. Pull up a stone.
     He is rarely seen, that is the word among The Wild Hunt -- rarely seen but always present. How long he has been with The Hunt is not known, even among the oldest members of that loose confederation of souls. He has never been heard to laugh, nor cry either, nor even speak aloud. Should he whisper Hello it would cause the sky to fall.
     You know how fairies like to exaggerate...
     He leans back, his frame as much as his face disguised by the shadowy cloak. Presumably he is solid and not some wandering wraith. He seems to meet the force of the stone and stop, not continuing through it. But maybe it is the cloak that is real and living and he merely a ghost within its shell.
     How has finding me on this outcropping saved you trouble, Prince? he wonders within the coil of your ears. His head tilts -- still you cannot see his face. It is a clear night, but not without its fog and murkiness. Shall we stare into the face of Forever together? He seems almost amused, but such amusement is so subtle. Most would miss it entirely and think him a cold bastard, colder than he is.

     You have his curiosity focused on you. It is a welcome relief, really, from having to think about other things; things he does not know and does not understand. His habit is all too much to chew himself ragged over such thoughts. "Finding you here means not having to find you elsewhere," Gwilym answers easily. "It is less of a hunt."
     He peers curiously at you, into your cowl. He can see nothing. Are you even in there?
     "The face of Forever tends to have too many blemishes for my liking. I prefer a smoother, creamier complexion." Gwilym approaches you slowly and by degrees, turning slightly so that he is not approaching you at a direct pace. "Are you looking for something in Forever? I hear it tends to have endless possibilities. But then, it probably also has syphilis."

     There is silence, and then remarkably there is something like a sound coming from that cowl, an actual sound. A solitary chuckle, so lonesome in its voicing that it falls into a depression as soon as its loosed from his lips. That seems to have amused him.
     No. I find it soothing, comforting in its own way, that Forever is out there whether I exist or not. Mathematically, it is true. And I can pass this way or not and It will not notice. There is a freedom in that. A comfort in that.
     Gauntleted hands fold against the dark cloth. You were seeking me. He resumes the previous thought, leaving Philosophy -- and syphilis -- behind. What is it that I can do for you, Prince?

     Did his ears deceive him? Gwilym's eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't confront you with it. Let people have their illusions; he got you to laugh! He moves to a rock, lowering himself to sit. "First, you can stop calling me 'prince'. I'm getting the urge to scratch myself behind the ears and try to lick my own balls. My name, if you need it, is Gwilym."
     He grins, then settles back, hands resting on his thighs. "My brother suggested I talk with you. It concerns some of those flowing in - and out - of his City."
     Mentally, he wonders if his brother will go as long as did his mother before giving the city a name. "There have been faces I have recognized, from my mother's kingdom and other places. I thought to share information with you, though - of course - it seems to me likely, with your reputation, that you already know all about it."

     Gwilym Gwyn Garu. His words spiral through your ear canals. Those words, your name. I do know you by association. I should imagine I would call you brother. I wonder why it is you have not officially joined the Hunt. Or have you, and I had missed it?
     The cowled head tips slightly, and he peers out of it, a sudden deep green flicker showing there. Your brother has built a jewel, as your mother had before him. And they have come, the thieves and scoundrels, as they are helpless to avoid. I was among the first to arrive. I have watched them stream in like a trail of ants over a carcass. They would like to pick it clean, but then... where would they go? It is in the middle of the ocean.
     He seems to stare at you for a time, and for that time says nothing, thinks nothing. Though the High King has not decided how or if he should use the brotherhood, I am... setting my standard here. It is in our interest to have a strong king. If you have special knowledge, Gwilym Gwyn Garu, then please, a hand gestures toward you, ...share it.

     He almost laughs at that, leaning back and looking up at the sky. "No, I've not joined. Why not? Well, for one, I've never been invited, but even if I had been ... I have never felt as if that is where my path lies." He shrugs. "Maybe someday. Maybe not. But it is like marriage, oes? A commitment not to be entered unless you are sure, without even the optimism of your wife potentially dying if it does not work out."
     Gwilym looks to you again, tilting his head. "He has the best of our mother, and none of the worst. Unlike me," he smiles. "I have the worst of everyone." Or thinks thus, at least, no matter how jokingly he says it.
     You ask for knowledge, though, and he nods at that. "There are five faces I recognized, each of them as bad as the rest of them put together." Gwilym ignores the impossibility of what he's just said. "Errys'l Mandragore - he's one of the guild leaders in mother's kingdom. He's been putting some of the houses of ill repute out of business - or, rather, pushing them close to it, then buying them up. Gambling and prostitution are his usual methods. They call him mandragore because that's what he's rumoured to feed his enemies to."

     He considers what you say. Though how you would know this, is anyone's guess for his face is not visible, there is no indication of his consideration apart from his silence. "The guild lords," his voice sounds, "... would want to make this their base. It makes sense. All roads... lead to Rome," and his head tilts toward his tattered banner.
     A moment later, his hands lift, going to his cowl. Darkness seems to coil like serpents around his writs, and the shadows ripple, the cloth and darkness falling back to reveal his face, unknowable to all but for you.
     Youthful, timeless, familiar but wholly lacking the earthly roughness of your grandfather's face is your grandfather in another form. Younger and older, all at once, he peers at you, his dark green eyes scanning not only your face but his own thoughts.
     It is his soul, that part of him that has been trapped in this dark Forever for longer than he knows. And the banner? It belongs to Mithras. He has carried it all this time, from the moment he killed the Persian demigod beloved by Rome. Smooth of cheek, his hair cut in choppy fashion, the waves going here and there, Davydd the Dragon Killer looks at you.
     "Consider this your invitation," he says after a moment. "When you're ready to join me out here," his gaze trails across to the wide horizon of Infinity, "...you will. When you are meant to. It will be good... not to walk the shadows alone. In the meantime..." Glancing behind him, suspicious of shadows, he guides the cowl back in place. I will remain here... at the center of things and on the edge of the universe. And I will take care of the guild lords myself.

     "To Rome, oes." He is amused - at first. Then you pull the head back, and his own emerald eyes widen in shock. He almost recoils; no, he does recoil. He falls off the rock, landing less than badly only by the grace of reflexes.
     Shiteshiteshite. A test? A what? Who? How is this possible? He does not know whether to be angry or amazed as he stares at you. Invitation? What the devil?
     "I ... thank you for your invitation," he says at last. "I ... will keep it in mind." He doesn't explain himself. Instead, Gwilym watches you sharply - paranoidly. Are you playing him? For real?
     He stands, now, resisting the urge to rub himself where he fell. "If you need help," Gwilym says after a moment, "let me know. I know many of them. I am, after all," he shrugs, "a thief. And they know me..."

     Then they should fear you...
     He watches you as you fall off the rock, as you move away. And the cowl is not up so far over his head that you cannot see his expression. He is confused by your change of mood, of body language, but he does not stop you from leaving. We should talk, before too much longer. I would rather them gone sooner than later, but when I scourge them from this place, others will have to beware their coming.
     The banner jostles against the standard pole, the tatters waving in the wind. The one called Draconis turns his attention back out to the wide open sea and the eternity it that stretches beyond it. I will be leaving soon. I can feel the hour like a hand on my shoulder. Do not take my disappearance as an insult, Gwilym Gwyn Garu.
     And as the slither of his whisper tickles your inner ear, the cowl slips over his head and the cloak ripples in a strong breeze. When the wind dies down, Draconis is gone. Standard and all.
     The moon sits heavy and golden in the London sky when a pair of forest green eyes blink open in waking. The sun is gone and another evening is just beginning. Interminable beginnings. Davydd ap Owain sits up in his bed with a sigh, staring Forever in the face.

Posted by rowan at February 09, 2007 08:37 PM