It's a relatively quiet night at Davy's. They don't have many of those, but this late Sunday night finds most of London elsewhere. There's only a few of the regulars here about, and the TVs are all on silent. No singer tonight, but the sound's being piped in -- a mixture of Dylan and the Super Furry Animals.
Behind the bar is Llew, the head bartender now except when Rhodri's about. But Rhodri's nowhere to be seen tonight, nor his alter ego, Kelly Morgan. Last time anyone saw Rhodri was him zipping off on his Triumph about four-thirty.
It's well after one a-m now.
The oldest of the old regulars is in his old regular spot, having his usual poison and smoking the familiar cigarette. He sits in a booth that he's occupied off and on for near-on a century, even before the bar was his. It's safe to say the current incarnation just sprang up around him in between him lifting his wrists to bring a pint to his lips.
Davydd ap Owain sits in the back booth, the red leather of the booth seats squeaking now and again against the black leather of his coat. He wears a charcoal grey crewneck sweater, the knit wide and handmade. The trousers are likewise wool and somewhere between charcoal grey and black, and somewhere down there is a pair of round toed Doc Martens, the better to kick the shite out of something later.
The drink he's nursing is a Penderyn. The cigarette he's nursing is a Regal. He's smoking and drinking like a proper Welsh princeps, tonight. And from the looks of it, he needs a stiff drink and a smooth fag. He's staring at the liquid in his drink, the smoke prying itself from his lips to drift to more pleasant scenery. Occasionally those forest green eyes will lift, flick about the room, and return to the space somewhere between his hand and his glass.
Maybe he's thinking about all the times he spent here with his mates, the ones he never sees anymore. Maybe he's thinking of the girl down the street, dripping in diamonds from her ears to her feet...
You look like hell, papa.
Isn't that just a voice you didn't expect to hear tonight? Or any other night, for that matter. Grandson number one of two out of the present batch, the one who looks entirely too much like his da, with a few touches of his mum, the girl down the street in the diamonds. He comes walking in cool as you please, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and his hair down in front of his eyes. Short in back, long in front - the reverse mullet he favors most of the time, because it just looks cool.
He knows you are here. The air itself tells him, even if he couldn't see you. And he is dressed for London, in jeans and a turtleneck, boots and jacket, looking for all the world as if he's just gotten done posing for some rock god portrait for some magazine.
Couldn't you just hit him, coming in as if nothing's happened...
Gwilym does not make a beeline for you. Instead, he moves to the bar, leaning forward with an agreeable smile. "Pint, gwiolch. Noswaith dda..."
Llew is there to greet you with the familial cockwise smile. It's genetic. He's a Morgan but just how the two of you are related would be too complicated to map out. Suffice to say, there are elements of Morgans, Llewelyns and Herberts that are signature, and the grin is pure Morgan. "Noswaith dda," he draws out as he taps a pint for you. "Fel nei? Been blwc, do?" He slides the pint over to you and nods over to the hulking dragon in the corner. "Ewythr seems mewn chan glas sillafa," he murmurs. "I mewn a chornela er fachlud haul."
He doesn't keep you now, you're likely here to see 'Uncle' after all, but he gives you a nod now that conveys in all its simplicity: I won't keep you. See me later if you want a smoke and a chat. Good to see you, Gwi. All that without a single word spoken.
Look like hell, feel like shite. Goes with the territory. You can start with a beer if you like, but I've the best whisky this side of the Severn at the table. Care to join me? It's not a given, after all, not with the way things have been between you. For months. In some timelines, for years.
Davydd exhales a puff of smoke, the sigh of a dragon, and his gaze lifts up to look at you at last. There's a softening of the crow's feet at his eyes when he looks at you. He's missed you, you see.
Stuffing his cigarette between his lips, he half-waves you over. It isn't that he isn't happy to see you -- the expression that warms at the sight of you gives that away clearly -- but his energy is low. He's in a brooding humor, to be sure. It's something you've no doubt inherited. Certainly your brother has. You look good. Been a while. You've been doing well, I hear.
"When not?" Gwilym asks the question of Llew rhetorically. After all, call him uncle or papa or whatever else and the results are still the same. You are prone to blue spells of varying shades and have always been. He does not mean to make light of it, not really; but to a degree, he also can't help himself. He is too much the trickster. "Diolch," he adds as he takes the pint. The nod is returned with equal eloquence - good to see you, I'll do that, let's see what's up with the Old Man first...
He turns away from the bar to begin making his way over to you as lightly as if it didn't matter at all. No time at all, has it been? Not really, surely? But there is no outward sign of it, in any case. Your oldest grandson makes his way over to you with a nod, footsteps assured and expression cocksure.
I'll start with beer and see where it takes me. Not like I'm mixing the grape with the grain, though I've done that a time or two as well. Gwilym drops into the seat opposite you, setting his pint down carefully and leaning back as he looks at you. He looks at you as if to see how you have changed, in the months and years it's been; as if his absence has left some visible toll on you. You are the same as ever, of course. I figured coming here would give me one place where Heckyl and Jeckyl can't get at me for a few hours. I was getting ready to tie them in a sack and leave them dangling from one of the trees in one of the forests of Avalon, but I thought you might object.
The pint is lifted to his lips and set down again, and he finally speaks aloud, sweeping the longer hairs back from in front of his eyes. "You look ready to start singing country-western."
Heckyl and Jeckyl. That's good. His lips curl at the pseudonyms for the twins. It's not a full smile but it is more up than down. "They're a handful," he notes. And maybe that's why he looks so tired. He's not a young man anymore and twins will age you twice as fast as a single child. Enjoy it while it lasts. The respite's only ever temporary. He smirks out smoke and leans back, taking a shot of the whisky in a swallow.
"I'd have liked the Old West. I'd have made a hell of a marshal. Often wondered why I never went. But you know... I get dug into London like an old, fat tick. Hard to leave her." He is drunk, and normally with whisky he'd be exuberant -- or when brooding, prone to gesticulation and maybe even accusations. But not tonight. His poet soul is bared wide open.
You heard about your father, how he's back On The Game? The Business. You know the one. He's got your mother swimming in diamonds and jewels. And you know how she gets when there's thievery about. He looks at you a moment, then smirks. Well, maybe you don't know. But ...you're a thief, you know how the girls react. Now he's frowning.
Cigarette stuck between his lips again, dangling there with pendulous ash, Davydd reaches over and refreshes his glass, the rich amber liquid more than three fingers deep. Maybe you don't want to hear about this, his voice issues between your ears with his customary rumble. And maybe I shouldn't prattle on, but I'm drunk and I'm full of the moon.
Oes, well. Keeps them guessing - though I feel bad for Pros if they go bothering him while I'm gone. If you are really accepting him as he is, the mention if his lover will not make you flinch. He does not make a show of watching you, but he is watching you all the same, from beneath the hood of his hair. The pint is being decimated; not in gulps, but steadily nonetheless. Nothing lasts. I do not expect it to. I am always surprised when I wake up and find Tomorrow has become Today and things are more or less where I left them Yesterday.
He is as flippant as usual - but he is speaking the truth. He is shocked - truly and deeply - that yesterday has become today; that he is still where he was, that nothing has changed. He is still with Prospero. He is still in love. He has not been rejected, he has not yet begun to run away...
"Pfft, America." Gwilym waves his mug eloquently. "Nothing there which you can't find here. Silly to run away thousands of miles for more of the same, innit? Though some of us, that's all we know how to do." He shrugs, leather creaking over his shoulders. "Running becomes habit, I suppose."
And he would know...
I heard. I have mixed feelings, but as long as da's happy. Gwilym shrugs again, leaning back and slouching down, getting comfortable and raising his eyebrows. I don't know about mum and if it involves anything you lot get up to, I don't think I want to know, papa. They only made one of her, duw be thanked or I'd have been in trouble. Never met a woman like her to even catch my mind. With him, if you want to hold him, it isn't his eye you've got to catch.
You continue on, and he finishes off his pint while you do so. He remains there, for all the world the up and coming rock star with nothing better to do, green eyes fixed on you with lazy seeming indifference. So what's the problem? Da's taken up the Shadow Road again. It isn't as if he ever really left, papa. It's not a road you ever really leave; not if your feet're on it. He's better at it than I'll ever be, though. Pros, and here, your grandson smirks, Pros doesn't want me using it for his benefit. Not much. I am sulking a bit. What is the point of having a weapon if you aren't going to use it? But, a mental shrug, and he motions for the whiskey - give over, old man, why is da taking up a life of crime a problem? Means he's not dipping into the family coffers, oes?
Prospero's a proud man, he wants to do it on his own. I can understand that. He nods as he speaks to you, he thinks it better than he could ever utter it. It's an admirable quality, that. But...you love him, so you want to make it easy. That's admirable too.
He looks across the table at you, a look direct and pensive all at once. He flicks the hanging ash into the plastic ashtray. It's getting near the end. He pats his jacket to find the pack hiding inside. Sometime, whenever you like, I'd like you to bring him by your mother's castle. I am there with the boys most days, most nights. I'd like to meet him. There's no flinch, there's no reaction, not the kind that you might be expecting anyway. There is acknowledgment that comes hand-in-hand with his own contrition, his own remorse for his mistakes. And for the realization that you have been with this person for years but he has never met him.
It is a recognition of the estrangement that has existed between you.
His ears, his nose, his cheeks get suddenly flushed and he's quiet for a moment, turning his thoughts to slightly less unpleasant matters. Yeah, well... I won't get vivid. Suffice it to say, they're in a sort of ... second and third honeymoon. I'm not only a third wheel, I'm every sort of odd wheel I can be. I can't cover the woman in gifts like that, make her... swoon like he does. I don't know why she loves me like she says she does. I offer her next to nothing but a hard time. He shrugs. I guess we all have our talents. Mine is being a pain in the arse. Davydd pauses, his eyebrows opening wide and his expression suddenly animating. Oh, and I'm there to get the things off the high shelves. That's about it, boyo, as far as I can see. He's sweeping her off her feet, and I'm the one left holding the broom.
He smirks at himself, making a half wave with his hand, gesturing grandly with whisky. Not that you want to know, oes? The ins and outs and ins of your da and ma and papa. Sorry. You asked, there it is.
I'll check with him. His schedule is more locked down than mine. I am a kept man, oes? Aside from what I do for Io, but that's all volunteer work on my part. And nobody knows when or where I'll show up - I keep them guessing. Leaves me able to take time to myself whenever I want to.
There are times when Chaos has a bit of advantage to it. Your grandson grins a little, trying to look nonchalant. But his expression softens visibly, despite his best intention, when he speaks of his lover. He works very hard. Not as hard as Io does, but Io is fucking mental. I yell at him almost every time I see him. Of course, I could say he's fucking mental because he actually listens to my advice...
His self-deprecation he got nowhere strange; that, he got straight from you. Do you recognize it, on someone else's tongue? Gwilym does not dwell on it, though; you have things to say, and his expression becomes attentive as he listens. He tops off his whiskey in silence, sipping it and saying nothing.
So you think mum will toss you out on your ear? That she is going to leave you for da? Gwilym asks it without panic but with wondering. Is this what you think? What is it that you think? Or that she will find no time for you, because da's busy draping her with other people's rocks?
He sits back with a roll of his shoulders (you got that from him too). I don't think she's going anywhere, no. But the shrug of his shoulders says he's not sure about something. He flicks ash, then gives it up and just crushes the cigarette altogether. Taking out a new one from the pack of Regals, he gives it a light, turning his head to billow the fresh smoke to the side. She says she loves me. I believe her. She's my wife. But I'm not your father. I'm not as... exciting as he is, and what could I possibly do to compete with the Black Jack Davy? He smirks at that. Even though, I have you know, that was my title first. My title first, my woman first, you begin to see the pattern, yeah? He's the thief. The jack. The highwayman. Like you. With looks like you have, and a mouth that could be coined into pure gold. He's covering her in jewels. What am I going to do? Cover her in furs? There's no point in competing when it comes to romance. He wins. Hands down.
Davydd glances up as you mention work: Prospero and Iowerth's. No one should work that hard, not even Io. But... good on y' for trying to talk some sense in. Best of luck. He cackles smoke at that. The sudden laughter is a strange sound in the middle of a quiet bar, after so much staring and not speaking -- as far as the bar can hear anyway.
He shrugs again, but to what is unclear. Maybe he's just stretching a shoulder. Maybe he just doesn't know. I'm old, set in my ways, frozen in time, and right now I just feel... irrelevant. Like the moon in the middle of the day.
I suppose it depends on what's exciting, papa. He has no idea what his mother likes or doesn't like. He can guess. He prefers, ultimately, not to. Still, you are in some concern, and he can appreciate it. For a moment, green eyes lift with candor to look at you. I don't know why Pros is still with me, either. I am full of shite, and he and I both know it, so why he continues to put up with me - let alone tells me he wants to be there - it's as if he's telling me he's paying good money to have someone kick him in the ass. 'If you say so, but I think you're mad as a hatter' - but they insist it's what makes them happy.
He does not understand it. He is confused by it as you are - and as insecure within himself because of it. Gwilym shakes his head. I am not in the same position as you. There is nobody else competing with me for Pros - or if there is, I am not aware of it. And he doesn't like that thought. You see the shadow of it move across his face uneasily before he flicks it away. I make his life hard, Gwilym admits to you. I flirt. I argue. I figure if he continues to put up with my pound of shite ... then I know, at least for another week, oes? But he's a man. Women? I never was able to let myself be taken that way.
He rubs his face, scrubbing the back of his hand against his mouth as his eyes narrow for a moment. Casually, he lets his head fall back to take in the view of the ceiling. If I had to guess, papa... I'd say that mum's about as tied to you as she is to breathing, maybe more than that. Have you ever - asked da? I mean ... why ...
Why your woman...
He looks at you. Your self-deprecation he generally tunes out -- he's so used to hearing his own that another's doesn't phase him. But to hear you echo words out of his mouth is something else. Davydd shakes his head a bit and smiles helplessly. "Sorry, son. Seems to be genetic. I was hoping it'd skip a couple of generations, like a bad nose." He reaches across the table to pat your arm and then sits back.
As you ask your remarkable question, you get a level look. Been there, it says, done that. I don't have to ask him. I know. I was there. I ran from commitment. I actually separated from your mother for a short time. A matter of nights. And he was there, quick to pounce as any thief is when someone drops a perfectly good jewel. I don't blame him. If I felt I had more to offer her... maybe I wouldn't care. But for all her protestation, she's a romantic at heart. And so is he. And... well...I'm not, at least not that way. And women want that. And your mother in particular is ... susceptible to the charms of a thief. Not because she needs the jewelry, god knows. It's not about that. It's about how he's getting it. And then... what he does with it. How they enjoy it. It makes them closer and well... right now...when they're in a room together, again another shrug, ...it's hard for anyone else to be seen. They are just... into one another right now. Like two bees making honey.
Davydd exhales a plume of smoke and then takes another drink. The numbness hasn't set in yet, but his face is getting red. I've had my moments with her. This is... just not one of them. And it's complicated when it's three to a bed. I don't have to tell you that, I suppose. He knows your reputation. I don't recommend it. No matter how balanced you try to be, someone's always upset. That's the nature of the odd number. Right now, I'm odd man out. He crushes out his cigarette and nurses the bottle for a while.
She insists I make her happy. I don't know how. So I bite her neck. So fucking what... Now, he's starting to rail a bit.
I never gave anything of myself, papa. I don't really know. He listens to you, trying not to make faces. Three to a bed, well, oes, he knows about chemistry and geometry far more than philosophy or poetry; and those he doesn't want to think about, not where his parents are concerned. What he can answer, though, he does. I left a string of broken hearts in my wake, a mile wide and a fathom deep, papa. But I never gave them any of myself. It ... was ... easy to fool them into seeing what I wanted them to see. And even later, when I started - exploring my options, he figures you'd both be happier if he doesn't specifically say fucking men...
I did not give much of myself. I let them see more of me; I had to. But in the end, I ran away from them as much as from anyone else. And to be honest, I wonder sometimes if I am not doing the same now - if I won't fuck this up the same way I did every time before.
Are you sure he was born and not cloned from you? But he smiles at you where you would not be smiling, right now, his expression filled with derisive self-mockery. It is, I think, the ultimate peril of Love. You do not know what will happen and there is no reading ahead to the end of the book. It thrills me and I hate it at the same time. I can't stand not being in control of myself, having nowhere to hide, being exposed and having everything cut away and peeled back and put on display. But at the same time - I need it more than anything else. Just another garden variety, run of the mill masochist, papa. And where Love is concerned, aren't we all?
More whiskey. The bullshit's getting a bit deep in here, even for him. Gwilym echoes your shrug as he tips his glass back and sets it down again, licking his lips. "So be somewhere else for a while," he tells you, out loud, repeating the shrug. "Isn't that the grand thing about being a man? Do something else for a few months, make a grand reappearance, they'll be happy to see you because they've missed you. It works for me; how often've you dragged me back for holiday dinners by the scruff of my neck, anyway?"
He looks to you -- even his gaze seems to slur -- but he slowly nods. I never used to either. Your mother's the first. I spent a lot of time chasing a lot of skirts, immortal and otherwise, mostly treating them like shite. I'm a lousy lover, his mouth cuts a sudden Morgan slant -- he is its progenitor. All the grins of all the men in this line can be traced back to his. He's the Adam of it all. I don't mean mechanically... no one's ever complained there, apart from quickness... we can't all be marathoners, you know!... but emotionally. You know... being romantic and making large gestures. The little surprises that make women feel special. I know and do fuck all about that. I come in, eat, prop my feet on the table and tell them to drop their kit, it's time -- to me, that's fucking romance.
He laughs, roughly and at himself as much as at the mental image he's no doubt drawing. Romance isn't my strength. I'm not sure what my strength is, apart from hardheadedness. Not sure that's a good trait. Rubbing his eyes, he slowly shakes his head. Your father on the other hand is a charmer of the highest rank, romantic, a man of stamina, everything I'm not in other words. And I love him. Shite, I admire the bastard! Davydd rakes a hand through his short copper hair as he looks at you with the twisting smile of self-deprecation and a touch of awe for his own progeny. I guess my gift, my strength is producing better men than me. That's my one talent. Rhodri, you, Iowerth. You're all fine, fine men. Handsome, smart, crafty, and the two little butter beans are coming up quick behind you.
Head resting on the heel of his hand, Davydd rolls his head to the side, sighing. Duw's hairies, you sound like you've inherited some of my better qualities. I'd say I'm sorry, but you're likely sick of hearing that. I've gotten good at apologizing. Been doing a lot of that the last ten years. Smirking again, Davydd sits up. He exhales mightily, and takes up the glass again. He drains it and considers the taste of it -- that is, if he can taste it at this point. I guess we are, oes. Even his internal voice grunts. Hope you allow yourself the odd bit of happiness, even though it's scary. That's all I want for anybody. I just want everyone to be happy. I must be the biggest masochist of all. Dark green eyes shift to you, and he rolls a shoulder again. "Nowhere to go, boyo. I've the bugbears to watch." Aeron and Bran. "I'm trying not to repeat history, yeah? Those who ..." and his hand gestures, presumably inferring: those who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it. "Not that it'd help. I'd just fucking obsess about it anyway. Might as well be here to watch it, and be fucking miserable than off sitting in a hotel room or sommat, being miserable."
Don't talk daft, papa. You have other talents. You're pretty sodding awful at giving yourself any credit, though. As for the twins, Gwilym rolls his eyes, I'm not taking them off your hands for you. But you do have the option of putting them into care - Io's got a son, let 'em spend a couple of weeks or so together. It will do all three of them good.
He smirks at you. Romance. He knows nothing about romance - not really. Da knows more about that shite than I do. I never went for gifts - I just told them the lies I knew they wanted to hear. 'You're beautiful, incomparable, no other woman like you, your breasts are beyond perfection itself' - add a few bottles of wine to bollocks like that, you can get anywhere. Plus, women do like men hiding under their beds and so on. Well. Young women do. I've found as they get older, they get increasingly less tolerant of those kinds of games. The novelty of romance wears off and they're more interested in material gain.
Gwilym rakes a hand back through his hair, leaving it askew and dangling still before his eyes. "So what would it take for you not to be miserable? Define that first. You have a goal. Now, figure out what it'd take. Ignore what you know or you think you know. It isn't just a matter of him or her or them. What do you want?"
Those two... they're God's revenge on m', I'm sure of it. I love them, the bonnie boys, Duw knows. But they've mouths on them for certes. He pauses to roll his eyes theatrically. Don't know where they got that. Davydd sits back as he lights another cigarette and he slumps downward, his legs taking over some of the real estate under the booth.
Your mother's perpetually young and I'm perpetually ancient. What I really want? Fuck if I know. Davydd laughs suddenly, his eyes bright and his smile like the streak of a comet across a dark sky. Smoke puffs from his mouth and nose in the laughter and he half shakes his head. Fuck if I know, boyo. I want my friends back. I want my wife to remember me when she's in another man's bed. When she's covered in another man's diamonds and being cradled on another man's lap ... I don't want to be forgotten. Not that I think she does, he's quick to counter.
The green eyes are sharp when he looks at you. I don't much like the idea of her being draped in stolen booty from one of the world's greatest thieves and me having nothing to give her. I'm like the little drummer boy competing with the three kings of orient are. He smirks at that, but he means it. I don't have anything to give her. Just ...rat a tat on my fucking little drum...
And the little drummer boy's the one who got the song and the credit for the better gift, Gwilym counters. You aren't a thief, or not one anymore. You're still what you are, papa. You've got your kingdoms to look after, even if they're not the kingdoms they were, oes? What woman isn't thrilled by the king's touch? Why's mum love you? Figure from there, instead of from where you're at - and you might not understand why, but mum's like all of us. She's a talker. She's had to have said why she loves you at some point.
Gwilym rolls his shoulders, leaning forward to snag the bottle back from you - quit hogging it! As for your friends, papa ... call 'em. See if they're up for hearing from you. If they're not, they're not, but if they are, go - I don't know ... skiing, or karaoke, or whatever the nine hells it is you ancient old fucks go and do. He is being deliberately and humorously rude, pulling a face at you. Or get busy with one of your projects. Weren't you building a homeless shelter or sommat like that? You don't have ANY projects to keep busy with? What's the point of living forever if you can't take a few years to pursue side projects when things get annoying?
"Your problem is you're basically self-defeating. Duw's balls, is this how the War was won?"
He looks at you squarely, and for half a second you might think you've crossed the line, finally. But then the Drunken One smirks. "I work all the fucking time. It's all I fucking do. Look, nevermind. I'm drunk, I'm just rambling." The cigarette bounces, waving fire and ash, as his lips move in his rapid English. "I do call them. I leave messages. It's the modern era. In a hundred years, it'll occur to Gwilym... sorry... Guillaume," he enunciates in rather wretched French, "... to call me back."
Edward. Edward, he doesn't mention. He just gets tight-lipped and upset. The flush fades after another moment. Davydd stamps out his cigarette. "I'm going to go fishin'... that's what I'm going to do. Gonna sit out on my boat on my lake on my land and catch my fish..."
He doesn't say anything about wars. He's drunk. He's not going to answer. But his answer would be...yes... and with tears and fists, too. He's a right to be tired, in his mind.
"You're welcome to come with... oes? But I suspect y'll say No. You've someone waitin on y'?" A copper eyebrow cocks skyward. "Just what are you doin' here when you could be doin' somethin' else far more entertaining elsewhere?"
There is the growing tension as you look at him like that. Did he cross the line? And this, perhaps, is why it has taken so long; whether or not that is your intent, there is a more than merely healthy dose of fear where you are concerned. He has seen the beast - if not in you, then in another. And he fears your anger, as much as he has ever feared losing your love. You see it, in the way he squares himself, the slight retreat as his shoulders hunch, bracing himself as if for a physical blow...
"Fishing is only good if there's a fish you want to catch." He does not relax. Not entirely. But slowly, his head lifts from his shoulders, no longer hunched like a turtle. Gwilym glances down at his glass, then lifts it, finishing off what's in it. "But as long as fishing's enjoyable, oes?"
He isn't going to go fishing with you, it seems. Instead, he is leisurely unpacking himself now, tucked again remote behind his walls and his defenses, not looking at you. "I came to see you, papa. What else would I be doing here?" It is up to you to decide if he is speaking the truth. The words are not accompanied by the usual too-smooth, too-quick grin and wink. He does not look at you at all, which for anyone else would be proof of a lie. But he is too good with lies to need to look away when he makes them. "I don't spend much time seeking entertainment. Not unless it's another form of a run."
The fox has his dens and mazes...
My family is the most important thing to me, papa. It always has been. Nothing ever hurts as much if it does not come from one you love, does it? But I should be getting back, oes. If nothing else, I don't want my scent to linger too long. You never know who might pick up on it...
He sees it and his gaze immediately softens. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to look at you sideways. I'm drunk!" he announces with a smirk. "I'm not right. I'm not right, boyo." Exhaling, Davydd leans in, his hand reaching to pat you on the arm. "I love you. I love you more than you'll ever imagine or conceive. You're my bonnie boyo." Now his eyes are all watery. "Nah, fuck all. I'm not goin' fishin. Come upstairs with me and sit a while, yeah? It's been years, Gwilym. Months anyway..."
It's hard to tell with the difference in timekeeping...
My family... is the most important thing to me, too. It's all I have. Protecting it... that's m' job, it's what keeps me here after all this. Spare your grandda a few more minutes, oes? Help an old drunk man upstairs...
He draws his hand away and slowly sits back. "I'm going to regret this bender come the morning when I've two little boys climbing on my head. Course, by the time I get back there, those two little boys may be fifteen. Bugger the time change." With a groan, the old dragon rises from the booth, his dapper clothing making him look like a page torn out of Welsh Gentleman's Quarterly. If there were such a thing...
I want to hear more about Prospero. I hear he's making a mint in commodities. A winemaker in the family. It's like a dream come true. Get him to make scotch and I might kiss him m'self...
...All right. He will go with you, it seems. Despite his defensive reflexes. You receive a furtive look, and he goes on unfolding. I try not to fail you, papa. I seem built to fail, though.
He has never told you how much. About witches and shadows and pre-adolescent pacts and their final outcomes, how nearly it cost you your wife, his mother, and your youngest grandson, his younger brother. And he is not telling you now. He is still afraid of how you might react...
"Years and months. The time change is annoying," Gwilym agrees quietly, trying for nonchalance. He is half-drunk himself, by now. He rises, moving to pound you on the back. "Let's get you upstairs before you fall over, oes?"
Prospero is ... amazing. He has so many achievements. I do not know why he is wasting his time with a two-time loser like me...
It is with that drawl that he moves to accompany you upstairs, the echo of yourself. He seems as convinced of his own worth as you are - which is to say, not particularly. If you decide to kiss him, make sure he shaves first. I'd pay good money to see that - it'd almost be worth it, just to see if he would actually react. I should tell you about the first time I officially met him - by the way, can we ban traveling minstrels?
That is the last thought on your ears as he heads up the stairs with you - a story in the making.
Posted by rowan at September 18, 2007 07:02 PM
