Day has led to night, and night, to day again. The dinner was short - abbreviated, one might say; Gwilym rolling his eyes but with good humour as his parents left to find their own bliss. He was not averse to spending some time finding his own bliss, after all.
     The evenings were memorable. He'll say that much. But now it is a new day, and humming to himself, he has bathed and dressed in lightweight cotton; dark grey trousers and a white shirt, charcoal and silver jacket and boots over that. He is not ready to give up wearing the black - rather, he is reclaiming it. Besides, it looks good on him, and Gwilym Gwyn Garu is unlikely to give up looking good, even if he knows whose eyes he wishes to catch.
     Can't make it too easy, can we?
     Whistling, he goes down through the many-storied palace, through the corridors and past courtiers and servants and nobility alike. What does he care? He is still a prince, isn't he?
     A day like today, I want to turn myself to a bird and make mischief for half the businessmen. But Io might object. The thought amuses him; he passes a hand over his scalp, feeling the heat of the sun. Duw, it's getting warm out. Summer is not yet half over, is it...

     He does not keep Time. Time keeps him. But occasionally, on very rare occasions, he can will himself into sleeping, and turn his soul out to view the day.
     He has to squint, mind you...
     Eyes not used to the sun are peering through the brightness. Will the sun in one place stir the vampire resting in the other? He can never be sure, though if we were to burn and hasten his completion here in the Here-After, Davydd wouldn't exactly complain. But burning to a crisp in the sun... there are few worse ways to go.
     He is keeping, as best he can, to the shelters and shadows of the corridors, heading up as the one he seeks is heading down the stairs from the royal corridors. They're bound to meet in the middle...
     A shock of red hair becomes visible, and dark green eyes glimmer as they look up the stairs in his travel. He has abandoned Draconis' vestments -- Draconis will take on a life of his own in legend, let him -- for the raiment of a Welsh chieftain, a working prince of princes who never would be king.
     Gwilym, the voice is quiet as it feels its way to you. I would like to see you, if I might., for a moment. Are you free? Your papa rarely calls across the worlds these days, leaving you in relative peace and quiet. And he never does so to ask your permission...
     I am in the stairwell... the palace goes forever. How many floors does it have? He is on the third floor landing now, rounding the corner of the grand marble stair.

     He stops, stock-still at your call. Papa? You are here? But it is day. And you are asking...
     Gwilym tilts, turns, expression almost comical. Is he on Candid Camera? Where's Allan Funt? Finally, he tilts his head to answer you. I am free, oes. Where will we speak? I can come to you if you like, but that cannot be comfortable for you. It is day. You are here. What the hell?
     He moves back into the palace, moves back past the courtiers and all the rest, ignoring them as they stop to stare. Wasn't he just on his way past in the other direction? We can meet in my quarters if you like, or I can bring you with me into Shadow. There will be no light there to risk harm...

     So much light -- it isn't... comfortable. It is no longer familiar. Shadows, he agrees with a hint of relief. Meet me on the ... fourth floor, in the hall. I will be there.
     And so you'll find him, his back against the cool marble (which he can feel through the warming leather jacket. His hair, allowed to grow a bit, is now wavy, sticking up here and there in a modern style that is oddly suiting to the brown leather and cream colored linen he wears. He is unnaturally bright -- or maybe that's just how he looks during the day when he shouldn't be out.
     You've only seen him once during the day and that wasn't exactly a pleasant conversation. But unlike that instance, he is not inhuman in appearance, so beautiful that he is nearly ghastly, with burning eyes and fangs visible as he speaks. He looks... normal. If a little shiny.
     His soul cannot burn, but old habits die hard, so to speak. And he doesn't want the sleeping vampire to wake. No, he wants to speak to you himself, without the added commentary. Without pretense. Without judgment.

     He is gone, and then he is back. For him, it is almost instantaneous, the shifting of space, from one world to in between and back; it is as simple as stepping in and out of shadows. Your grandson looks at you with curiosity in his eyes.
     He has changed...
     The emerald eyes lack the hardness that for so much of his life fought to keep the world at bay. The habitual smile that bordered on smirk, no matter how handsome, has been replaced with something lighter, easier. The world is no longer sitting square on his shoulders the way it used to be.
     He does not stop to speak here; his hand moves to your shoulder as he draws you to him, to the shadows. In and out, weaving as a pattern, the sunlit world vanishing without a trace so that you and he stand upon the Road.
     And he is different, here; as different as night from day. He is still Gwilym, he is still dressed in grey and black with pockmarked silver; there is still the red and gold flame to his hair. But ordinary cloth becomes hardened, flexible armour. A sword hangs down, dagger opposite, belt and bugle at the ready. The eyes sharpen, even if they do not harden, remaining bright and vigilant; malachite instead of emerald. And he still does not speak, not right away - instead, he scouts.
     Is it safe? He decides so, it seems, but he remains careful as finally, your grandson turns to you. "Is mum all right?"

     The relief is tangible. It is almost incarnate, slapping you on the back to say Diolch! Davydd looks at you ensconced in shadows as you both are. "You mother's fine," he assures you. "I ... have been wanting to talk to you. Wanting to apologize to you," he corrects himself. His clothing likewise changes, to the gear commonly worn by his physical self -- black leather coat (hip length), black wool blend trousers, a white shirt and black Doc Martens.
     "I am sorry... for the way I was when we last spoke." He pauses. "The last two times we spoke. Sometimes... Gwi," he explains, his eyebrows shooting toward one another like comets on a collision course, "... when... my physical self is sleeping... when I am here... not everything comes across. It's hard to explain," he sighs. "I don't really understand how it works. I only know... I am in two places... never at the same time. I knew you by the time you were leaving that night. But at first... I did not recognize who you were there in the dark. I should know my own kin," he whispers. "But sometimes... I have sat in the dark here and not known my own name or why I'm even here."
     There is pain on his face. There is sadness there. "I am sorry I have mistreated you, Gwilym, that I have been difficult on you. I haven't meant to cause you any pain, distress, or to distrust me. I love you, you are very precious to me, son. And I have... not always shown it. Not always proven it. But... I want you to know it, to understand it. I have regretted it. And I think you have taken it ... hard. I want to... mend what's between us."

     You are talking to him - without it being because of his mother? His eyes widen, but you do not give his paranoia time to fully take root. Can you see it in his eyes, though, where his thoughts flash? From concern to that fear, that wariness, of what have I done wrong and oh shite, how much does he know? He watches you, listens with that millisecond delay between message sent and message receive as you and he struggle to bridge the gap.
     "I ... don't know what you mean."
     It is not rejection, exactly. You have confused him. He does not back away physically, but there is the flash to his eyes, of sensitive wounds being prodded whether you mean to or no. Gwilym stares at you, then abruptly, he looks away.
     He does not want to acknowledge what you are saying. The shields are coming up, the old shields, the old barricades between himself and the world. "I'm fine," he insists, gaze flashing back to you from the darkness. "Has mum been saying things? Do I look like I can't handle myself, papa?" He shifts, shrugs, hands slapping his waist in search of denim pockets which are not there, and he takes up a casual, studied leather stance, hand braced at his belt instead. "I know your life isn't easy, papa. I ... try not to make more trouble for you than I can manage. And," he shrugs, then.
     Gwilym tips his head up and back, looking for stars which will not appear in this endless night and shadow. "I probably won't much be going back anymore, anyway. So - one less trouble, oes?"

     You react and he follows. You stiffen and his expression softens. "It's hard to explain. It ...doesn't matter." He sighs, "..the only thing that does is that I have made you afraid of me, distrust me, and that slays me." He puts his hand to the bridge of his nose, holding any other words for a moment as he attempts to gather himself.
     "I only admitted to her how I felt and she only agreed it was a possible problem," he says after a moment. Lowering his hand, Davydd looks at you. More aptly put, your papa's spirit looks at you. "I have done... a lot of damage in all my years," he whispers, speaking as though to himself.
     He shakes his head. "I know you can handle yourself, Gwilym. I trust you. I do. When I wake on earth, I am filled with fear. When I am here... I am filled with regret for the things I have done or said in that fear."
     "I hear," he starts gently, "... from your mother.. that you are in love." He lifts his gaze to you -- it does not fix on you with steely judgment. He just glances at you for confirmation, then looks away again. "I am glad," he offers. "I am glad you have not... resigned yourself to the path I have walked. Solitary for most of my life. I am happy for you, Gwi, that you are not shielding yourself so much that you... miss what life can be, out of fear of what might happen."
     Hands on his hips, Davydd looks to the shadowed road beneath him. "I was never... worried about you, you didn't cause me any trouble, Gwilym. I was worried for those that... I was worried about those like me...finding you, trying to get to you, to turn you toward that life. I have been afraid of this. And I have not expressed that well."
     He waits to hear what else you have to say before offering any more. You do not seem all that receptive. Now's not the time to ask you if you want to be a king...

     There is an ambivalence that shows in his eyes, in his expression. He has trouble trusting what you say; trouble accepting that you are telling the truth and nothing but. Where is the trap in your words? It must be there somewhere.
     "I know that there are others like yourself out there, papa." Those are the words which come to his mind, come from his mouth. He stares at you, not advancing, but not withdrawing either. "I came closer than you know to that road. If I had ended up falling that way, not all of your words or efforts would have stopped it. Not your anger, not your tears, not your fear, nothing that you did or said could have prevented it. I've hidden myself from you for years, now - less time to you than to me, of course, but it's still closer for me to thirty years that I've been alive than not."
     He looks away and he sighs, lifting a hand to smack his palm against his forehead. "My lover for the past year or so was a vampire, papa. I let my blood be drunk, and we slept entwined sometimes. It wasn't because of you that we drew apart. You didn't know about it. How could you? I didn't tell you, and," Gwilym shrugs, looking back at you, "you never wanted to know that much about my life, papa. Whenever you did want to know things, it was because I was inconveniencing you. Or at least, that's how it felt."
     He is being honest with you, laying himself bare. There is no real accusation in his voice or in his face, but instead, a very calm, matter of fact expression, his hands going to his hips as he lets out a long, slow exhale. "I was falling down that road in fear. I was convinced I was not good enough to be with anyone, and I couldn't let anyone see me, the real me, whether for good or for ill. I am ... still ... recovering from being like that. I spent so much of my time hiding, that it is like trying to crack open a hardened mud shell. Only bits of me escape to be seen, still. I love you, papa, and I look up to you. I always have and I probably always will. But you and mum and da - to me, growing up, you were always going away. And in the end, I couldn't be what any of you wanted, enough, to get you to stay."
     He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, looking at you with an aloof expression. The words come out calmly, but his face is a mask, his emotions for once not on display. He tells you what it was for him, dispassionately, without anger or affectation, without tears - just a seemingly endless and iron control, almost as if he has lost interest in the story. "You always went away, no matter who I tried to be or what, papa. And in the end, I went away. And no one noticed."

     How could you say that? That no one noticed. Hands on his hips he looks at you. He doesn't ask about your vampire lover. It seems to be in the past, so like a smart man he leaves it there.
     Were this conversation happening in London, it might be far different...
     "Gwi..." Davydd stops with a sigh and he looks at you squarely. "My coming and going... had nothing to do with you. You couldn't have changed it, can't change it. It has nothing to do with how you are or who you are or what you like or how any of us feel about each other. It was ... just the way it was, son. I wish I could have had more time with you when you were young. I took every opportunity I could. I spent whatever time I myself had. Time moves so quickly here," he whispers. "I turned around and you were twelve. I caught a train, and you were twenty."
     He could go on...
     "Obviously," Davydd murmurs, "...this isn't a... Saturday afternoon conversation." He had no idea it was this deep, that the damage was that great, and he is flat-footed before the truth. He thought he was apologizing for one event, maybe two, not a lifetime. Shaking his head, he brings a hand once more to the bridge of his nose, pinching himself there to relieve the pressure he feels building inside.
     "I can't go back and change it," Davydd says at last. "All I can do is say I'm sorry... and I didn't realize it was ... quite this bad. I ... truly did not." Green eyes lift to you briefly. "I shouldn't keep you. If ... you wish to talk about this more, we can... arrange for another day. If not... I understand, Gwilym"

     "I know that. Now." Gwilym looks at you without anger. Of all the ways he envisioned this conversation going - this wasn't the way he anticipated. He never anticipated being able to say it; or being this calm about it. "This is in the past, papa. And it's not just you. It's mum and da, it's me. You need to know, if we're going to get over it. You need to know how it happened, why my first instinct whenever I've thought I've failed you has been to run."
     Now the emotion rises again, his eyes glinting a bit too much, cheeks coloring with a flush. "Nothing can change it, no. But ... I was never the brightest, oes? I cannot blame you for what I thought. But you need to know. I am working at honesty, papa."
     He sighs, his own hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "I'm not trying to whip you with it," Gwilym tells you quietly, though he is looking down, now, one or two tears making their way free even as he irritably dashes them away. "You are my family. Of course I still want to talk with you. I don't want you giving me credit for overcoming great odds, or bravery, or anything; it'd be shite. I just got lucky, is all. I found someone who supports me, who makes me a better person. Without that, I doubt we'd ever have an honest conversation, because for a long time, I just was not capable of it."
     Your grandson looks up at you, composure trembling a little, mouth tightening. "I don't hate you, papa. I just have trouble growing up, sometimes, and being a man around you instead of a little boy. That's all."

     Here stand two kindred spirits, bound by family, blood, bad habits and emotion. But though they speak the same language, and though they stand not ten feet apart, there's a chasm between them, these men, neither of them a bridge-builder.
     Were he in London, his soul mired beneath the mud of his body, he'd make some crack to lighten the emotional load. But he's not capable of it here. He's not solid enough that. Davydd nods to what you say, listening. He doesn't offer advice or information to counter your beliefs, your statements. He simply stands there, absorbing it like a sponge, taking it, whatever you dish out to him.
     It's nothing compared to what he's dishing out to himself.
     He doesn't know what to say. What started out so simple in his spirit, in his mind, has -- as is more typical with him -- become suddenly so complicated. "What do you wish to do from here," Davydd murmurs finally.

     He exhales, hand again rising to his face. "Go get fucking drunk," Gwilym cracks. He says it without a smile, though. "Want? I don't know, papa. You are important to me. I want to know that you can accept me as who I am. I want to be able to believe it. That what I do is good enough for you. I don't feel very successful, which I'm told by my loving brother is bollocks. But he sees only the best in me; I sometimes think he discounts much of the darkness in me, even if he's worried about my security."
     His hand comes away again, goes back to his belt. "I don't want your pain. If my experiences have taught me anything, it's that making others hurt when I am in pain is no sort of real profit, papa. Sometimes it's hard to remember, but it's important. What you should do? Get to know me as I really am. See if you can accept who I really am. We both trade too much in illusions, and it's bad for us."
     Gwilym grins a little, almost unwillingly, and he holds a hand out to you. "Come on. Let's ... go back ... it's probably soon time for you to go back anyway, oes? And my lover will be looking for me. I don't want to have to explain things more than I absolutely must. Just ... I think we need to learn how to be around each other. We can't do it simply, because we're neither of us ever able to do things the easy way. I take after you and mum too much, I guess, though I'm trying to be better to myself than that. We need a lot of food and a lot of drink, eventually - but right now, I think we probably both need to go home and lick our wounds."

     There's no shared laughter for the crack, nor even recognition that drinking to excess might provide any sort of comfort, let alone solution. He moves slowly, like he's carrying around a load of bricks on his shoulders (each one with your name etched in it). His hand doesn't take yours, but rather lands a touch to your shoulder. "Go on," he murmurs, "... it's okay."
     He is solid for a moment, staring at you in the shadows. He begins to dissipated, fading at the edges. "Somewhere," Davydd murmurs, "... I am lying in a bed...stirring from a restless sleep. But I will remember, Gwilym." There's a promise in that. The emotion, the struggle won't be forgotten.
     Neither will the pain or the guilt.
     "Now," he whispers emotionally, "... go to your lover and linger on something better than this, son." He is shaking his head as he dissipates completely, fading into the shadows like a memory...
     A memory that is lodging now in a waking vampire's brain...

     He watches you go. He does not leave until you are gone. As heavy as the weight of it is on you, it is on him as well. Who said speaking truth made the world feel lighter? Part of him wishes he had remained silent.
     That words once spoken, can never be recalled... then where's the profit in't, to speak and be truthful?
     He watches, waits until you have vanished entirely. "Mum's going to kill me," Gwilym predicts softly, to the space where until moments ago, you stood in flesh or spirit. "But there's nothing I can do about that."
     Where has fled his high, fine mood? It is gone. Shaking his head, he banishes shadows as he walks the road, chasing from them any lingering evil thing to spit them upon his sword. And when that has done, he slides from shadows entirely, in search of vintaged brandy and his Spanish sun.

Posted by rowan at March 09, 2007 11:00 AM