How could he make such a mistake? How will he handle this? What will he do...
     He returned from his sojourn around the island's edge with harassed and distracted air. Those who know him have been surprised; even shocked to see him so diverted, so ill able to conceal his emotional state; Gwilym Gwyn Garu is not known for ever being at a loss. It has been joked that an arrow could embed itself next to his head without warning, and the prince would make a joke before coolly reaching for a drink.
     But not tonight...
     He has changed his clothes. Where before he was dressed for business, now he is dressed as if expecting his packaging to be ripped open. The colours have changed - where before it was dark green and black, now it is white and emerald green. The opposite of thieving, now : colours meant to be seen, even from a distance. The trousers are white silk, thin and fine. The tunic is white as well; open-collared, loose at the cuffs, stitched with an emerald design to give it overall an almost Hindu appearance; good for the heat of summer, but tailored to him, closely enough to be distracting. His eyes gleam in reflection of the emerald, his hair burning like gilded fire.
     He has gone from tavern to pub, ignoring the looks he gets. He wasn't drunk enough to not notice, at first; he had to ignore it, channeling his energy like a nervous cat. A substantial quantity of spirits has changed that; now he has had enough to be inebriated, inebriated enough to seem merry. Inebriated enough not to notice - to get careless.
     And he swings into the fourth tavern of the night, fingers running over the frieze at the entryway as he turns to look over the patrons. "A round on me," Gwilym calls cheerily, as he has in every tavern this night. "Keep them coming, barkeep! And make mine a double." He strolls over to a chair rather than a stool, not paying much mind as to whether anyone else is sitting there or not - at the table, or in the chair itself.
     I am drunk, but not yet nearly drunk enough. The Hunt. I always knew it would come for me someday. But this isn't what I expected...

     There are as many different establishments in this city of cities as there are types of drink. There is something for each man's preference -- high, low, middle -- from one end of the bay to the other and around the bend of coastal rock. Some have columns and open-air seating that overlooks the city and the sea; others are tucked into corners so mysterious and tight that one must know a password just to walk down the street.
     This tavern is somewhere in the middle between the most opulent and the most secretive. There are columns and a portico, but it is enclosed, the air still warm from the very warm day -- just now starting to cool, though it is approaching midnight. And the arrival of the prince (as some but surely not all, not yet) know him causes a stir with the offering of free drinks.
     A hand is poised on the table, not for the lifting of a glass but for the lifting of the edges of cards, a glance taken before another bet is placed. But betting has ceased with your entry. Cinnamon and gold, the colors of Tiger's Eye jasper lift and fix upon the swaggering target. A cirrus eyebrow lifts over the amber-field gaze, his face a landscape of subtle reactions. He lowers his thumb, the cards following suit, and he glances to his nearby companions.
     At the back of the taberna is a round table situated beneath a window that has been opened to allow the cooling air to move within what would otherwise be a stifling bar. Sitting at this table are three men. Their attire is nice, well-made and constructed. Two of them are unremarkable -- one older, one younger, both thirsty -- but the third man, the one who sits between them, can part the crowds with a glance.
     He is tall, his build lean, fit. This, the brown leather conveys as succinctly as his face conveys his demeanor. His hair is cut short, the waves of dark brown covering his ears, swept across his forehead, curling just at his nape. The Tiger's Eyes -- the amber-brown jasper of them seem to waver in the low light, like burning resin, and the heat they give off is real, and exudes from him, from every part of him.
     He wears brown leather, a chocolate hue that matches the color of his hair, and makes his almond complexion all the more nutty in hue. The collar of the doublet stands stiffly, a crimson shirt lying beneath it, visible only in passing moments.
     "I am having brandy," he offers slowly, pitching coins (you recognize the sound of gold landing on a table, do you not?) into the center of the circle, his bet placed.
     "Prospero, blessed by the saints," the elder of his companions mutters in disgust as he folds, surrendering his cards and his bet, "...to take all of my money. Will you leave me with nothing?"
     Those cinnamon eyes do not shift from the emerald spectacle at the bar as he answers his companion: "...I am leaving you with your pride. Isn't that enough, Felix?" Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos leans back in his chair, resting in it easily, his fingers toying with the coins as he looks at you. The metal jingles in his fingers, in his grasp, as the other companion also folds his cards in resignation.
     His attention still on the generous benefactor, Prospero flips over his cards, revealing a pair of fours. What a bluff.

     Brandy. "That sounds like a fine idea," Gwilym says aloud, and then he turns his head. He is drunk - but nowhere near drunk enough for that gaze not to reach him. It affects him - stiffens his spine a little, though he doesn't quite know why. Where normally it might make him wary, now it just makes him curious.
     Curious. Interested. Alert. Intrigued...
     He looks at you, gaze lingering as he takes you in. Felix gets no interest. Why would he pay attention to other men, when you beautify the landscape so well? "A bottle of your best brandy," he says carelessly to the barkeeper, staying in his seat and leaning back. "Anyone who appreciates a good brandy can join me - or not. It's all the same to me, oes?" And he laughs.
     No - no, it is not all the same to me. I swim through darkness, I walk through darkness, I run through it - and in the end, I come away with nothing. I carry darkness inside of me. And it is cold, and empty. And I am alone.
     Then - screw this, I don't want to think about this any longer. "More brandy!" Gwilym laughs, emerald eyes roaming - until they find you. You are examined most thoroughly, and most shamelessly. "Let me be set free on a sea of it, tonight."

     It is a calm gaze, a steady gaze, but one so simultaneously filled with the heat of smoldering resin and the coolness of confidence that it cuts through space and lands a palpable touch on those it lands upon, fixes upon -- and that is you. "Felix, make room at the table for our benefactor," the curl of his lip suggests a smile as he tilts his head. Sitting back in his chair, a relaxed posture that fills the seat, Prospero looks to his associates, and they begin to move, making room for you to sit beside the one with the fierce, calm eyes.
     He inclines his head, considering you, considering the sea you are sailing, this sea of brandy. You already have wind in your sails, it seems. Now, he is smiling. It starts slowly, so subtle -- like the sunrise -- one hardly notices it until it is there. "If the seas were of brandy, I might enjoy sailing. Care to join in a friendly game?" Prospero begins shuffling the cards, gold and silver and copper coins in front of him. "Felix," so easily he commands, effortlessly, "... I will ask you not to cheat now. We have company."
     Felix, for his part, is dumb-founded. Cheat? Cheat?! If I were cheating I wouldn't be losing! He looks like the sore loser that he is, and deep in his own drink -- marsala. "Romero," he says to the other, younger companion, "...if this is cheating, I would hate to see by how much I would be losing where I playing fairly!" It makes Romero laugh. But then Felix always makes him laugh.
     They are ignored by Prospero, who lets their conversation move over him, past him without a second glance or even passing recognition that they are speaking, or even present. His jasper gaze is on you, fixing in his own study, in his own interest. He spares a glance for the bottle of brandy that is making its way toward his table. "What is our benefactor's name?" he wonders of you, inclining his head with that subtle smile lighting upon his lips again. "If the brandy is to be the finest, I should mind my manners." His voice is resonant, the accent is certainly not Celtic of origin. It has a lilt to it, a lightness that moves easily upon an agile tongue. The Rs trill slightly, and the quality of his voice is quiet but direct. As everything else about him certainly seems to be.

     You look at him, and now you are speaking of him - indirectly, to him - and it tightens his stomach. The muscles have grown hard, there, suddenly, while feeling weak, and he has to ignore it as he pushes up from his current seat as he watches, trying not to smirk. His stroll is lazy, a saunter that has such unconscious grace. He is halfway to dead drunk, and yet, it affects his stride not at all.
     "I am not a sailor - duw, no," Gwilym's eyes widen for a moment. "To that, I leave my brother." You know. The High King. He drops into the chair offered him. "Friendly game, oes? Looks like you prefer to play for blood."
     He meets your gaze at that. Yes. Yes, you do like blood, don't you? Maybe not as Iovis did and does. But there is something about you which is not content with second best. He can see that. Aloud, he chuckles. "Oh, well, if we're not cheating, then I suppose I had better bind my own manners, oes?"
     I could cheat. I could cheat so well that I could rob you blind and you would never know it. I have diced with such devils and won, kept my skin and bones intact and lined my purse with money not only from rascals but from reprobates.
     Who is he with? He looks now lazily to Romero and Felix, taking them in, measuring them - but you are right next to him. And despite the pleasant insulation of brandy, he is aware of you. Acutely conscious, as conscious as if you are touching him, however slightly. And yet, there is no contact. "My name? Gwi," he rattles out easily. "Gwilym for long. Gwilym Gwyn Garu for longest. Leave alone the rest of it, it can keep." He is not mentioning titles. They are - superbly unimportant, right now. If you know of him, well, the name will be enough, anyway - and that is more than he would usually admit to.
     "Why mind your manners?" Gwilym asks reasonably. "Let someone else mind 'em, we're in a tavern, not at court, oes? So what's our game?"

     He glances to you as his hands unconsciously shuffle the cards. "I can do you one better," he extends his hand, the cards set before you to cut them. "I am Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos," he smiles after such a mouthful, the words dancing tangos from his lips. "Felix...pour us all a glass," he interrupts himself to give another order.
     And make no mistake, these are orders...
     Felix sighs but obligingly opens the bottle and begins to pour brandy into the three glasses -- nothing for Romero. Perhaps he is too young.
     "The game is La Suerte del Diablo," those words dance from his tongue, nimble and quick. "The luck of the devil," Prospero translates. The other two men, guards one might suppose, begin to sit back. Soon they will be at their own table, forgotten. "You get two cards, and two only. Both aspect down. The dealer, that will be me, also gets two, but one is face up. You place your bets without looking at your cards for the first round of bets."
     That mouth of his is quick to smile when you say he is out for blood. Blood and brandy. "I prefer to play for gold," he smoothly replies, "...but where there is gold, there is always blood, Gwilym." He tosses in to silver coins among his many then sits back with his snifter of brandy.
     Over the rim of the glass, he stares at you, inhaling the brandy, tasting it with other senses than that of his lips and tongue. He breathes it in and then finally he takes a swallow. He holds it on his tongue as he considers both you and the taste of it. "What are we celebrating?" he wonders. "That would make you gift such a drink to we strangers." A motion of his hand indicates the bar at-large, many of whom are enjoying your generosity as you and Prospero speak.

     He glances to your hands, but it is your eyes which catch his attention the most - your eyes, and your mouth. He could listen to you talk all night, as long as it meant he could watch your mouth moving. It distracts him nicely.
     "Diolch," Gwilym rolls out the word, "I appreciate your willingness to share my brandy with me." He grins at that, expression lightening. "A pleasure to meet you, Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos." He manages to get the entire mouthful out by the time the brandy is in front of him, and he gasps as if desperate for a drink after that. "Ah! Now I'm dry as a desert. Here's to us and the hell with the rest of 'em."
     He takes a mouthful of brandy, rolling it around and closing his eyes to concentrate on the flavour, the essence of it. With eyes closed, Gwilym's features for a moment relax of some of their fevered animation; he hasn't the attention span, tonight, to do both. It youthens him. He doesn't look a day over nineteen when he does that. And then he opens his eyes, and carries right on as if he'd never missed a beat.
     "Well, I've had good luck most of my life," Gwilym grins at you, meeting your eyes for a moment this time and then glancing away. "Why not? I'll bite. Are we playing for blood - I mean, for gold, then?" You ask a question, and for a moment, it seems as if he is ignoring it. He settles in, cocking an eyebrow at you; already he is forgetting that Felix and Romero exist. "Who says I'm celebrating? A man needs a reason? Enjoy; I can be generous, most nights, but it's not often I go this wild with it. Who knows? Maybe you'll win sommat off of me, oes?"

     "Maybe," he says, his features non-committal. And then his mouth curls at the corners -- the birth of amusement. "That would depend on how the luck is sliced," he looks to you with those golden brown eyes, he looks to the cards in front of you. It's your cut.
     As you do so, Prospero sits back in his chair again, giving his body to its grasp. He looks at you -- that look that does not waver, though it does wander with the subtlety of a surgeon or a barber. Or a man who fights with swords, who must as part of his occupation be able to size up an opponent. He drinks the brandy. "I, for one," a gesture to himself, "...am glad to accept your generosity." His smile wanders the desert of his face, gliding along the golden plain of his complexion. "And I shall be generous in kind. Felix," he says quietly, if suddenly -- a thought now occurring to him. "Go to my room and find a bottle of the Pom."
     But we only have two bottles left! Felix's pudgy cheeks rattle with his panic that the treasure of their country may soon be lost, wasted on a foreigner! But he rises, knowing by the stillness of his lord that he will have no choice. "Come, Romero," he says, patting the younger man on the arm. "We go get the Pom and then we go find you a brothel. You need to lose your depressing cloud of purity."
     Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos does not respond to the banter between his men -- talk of purity's end, Romero's blushing, Felix's laughter, or their departure. He is looking at you, studying you, sipping at you like he does the brandy slowly disappearing in the vessel. You are interesting. Inebriated, but interesting.
     "Felix is obsessed with Romero's virginity," he explains as both men leave, young and older. "He wishes he could lose his again, to be young again. He lives through my poor young cousin." His mouth curls a humored, resonant smile. "Romero will not know what to do in a brothel. I think his head will explode, the one before the other."
     Felix returns after several moments, a bottle in his hand. The bottle is brown with golden wire around it. It bears no label and is stoppered by a formidable looking cork. He sets it down, giving Gwilym a look: What makes you so special? "We are going," Felix says to his lord, deference given in equal portions to defiance.
     "Good," Prospero replies easily. He holds out his hand for the key. "You have your own room. Tonight you will make use of it."
     Felix hands over the key with the same hesitance with which he relinquished the Pom.
     "Cousin," Propsero says then, turning to his cousin, and rising -- he is tall, quite, and his form and bearing are that of a commander of men. He gives his cousin a kiss upon each cheek as they do to this day in Europe and then claps him on the arm. "Do not let Felix get you into something you do not want. He can be very persuasive. If he wants a woman so bad, tell him to get his own." He says this to Romero though Felix is standing right there.
     Romero blushes and bows slightly. "Si...si... I will be my own man, cousin." He looks to you, smiling pleasantly. "Sir, a pleasure. Have a good night and good fortune."
     The two leave, with disgruntled Felix leading the way.
     "You must forgive them," Prospero murmurs, "...for the spectacle they create." He looks at you again as he sits, and he refills your glass. "One more of the brandy and then I will open the bottle I brought here from my own country."

     Gwilym blinks as you gesture again to the cars with such tangible gaze. What? Oh! "Ah, oes, right." One hand lands heavily on the deck, then lifts; behold, the cards are cut. And he eases back in his chair, utterly relaxed."We will see. I do not care tonight if I win or lose. There is a special kind of sin in winning, a kind of virtue in losing, don't you agree? I am losing for the sin and the virtue in each in turn, to find the untapped, the hidden depths."
     You bring up the idea of some other liquor, and his eyebrows quirk up, intrigued. Pom? His eyes follow the slide and press of your body against the cushioning support of the chair. His gaze is fascinated - it does not readily leave you for that sight of your men. He glances at them but barely sees - and looks back at you.
     "Duw... I have not been a virgin since barely my voice broke," he grins, "but maybe your Romero has unsuspected depths. Or unsuspected preferences." There is no insult in his voice. He does not say it disparagingly, or even knowingly - but rather, there is the voice of experience. His brother, after all, prefers men (most of the time). And? So does he.
     He lifts his hand, running his fingers back through his hair. "I have not visited my brother's brothels," Gwilym continues, with a short laugh. "I almost doubt that he has, either! And -" And the men are returning, and he cuts himself short, out of habit more than necessity. The smile lingers, and he lets himself tip back a bit, the chair creaking companionably.
     You encourage your cousin, and Gwilym covers his grin, rubbing his mouth. He does not interrupt, though he weaves to his feet when Romero addresses him, bowing with a flourish. "The pleasure is mine, I assure you. I will do my best not to have a good night, but a most memorable one!" Gwilym straightens with a chuckle and flash of white teeth in a quick and glinting grin, letting himself sprawl back down as they leave.
     "No apologies are necessary," Gwilym dismisses the notion with an airy gesture as he looks back up at you. You are tall. Taller than he by a noticeable amount. He likes that. "You have never seen what my brother and I can be like. My family is loud. It is why I am not with them right now. A glass of the brandy, oes, by all means! I am eager for it. Eager to try your own nectar, as well."

     He takes the cards that you have cut and he sets down two for you, quite deliberately; for himself, another two. The deck is set aside, and he turns over a card. Face up? A Jack of Diamonds. Prospero looks to you and smiles: "Well, if it isn't the devil himself? Senor Avarice. A very auspicious beginning." He tosses a couple of silver coins on the soft-topped table. The coins thud rather than clink and clang.
     "Romero, indeed, has other predilections. There is no shame in it. Felix, however," he tsk-tsk-tsks, "...cannot imagine it. He should take Romero to the dog house, not the cat house. It is as simple as this." What his own predilections are, Prospero does not divulge. The are likely many and varied. His look to you is far too knowledgeable.
     "It is your turn to bet. The object is, of course, not to lose. Without looking at your cards, you can only face the devil with your own faith: that your cards will be better than his. Typically, the dealer is the devil and not a player but... I do not feel like cutting someone else in. So... you beat the devil...you take the money. You lose to the devil, he takes your money."
     You sit adjacent to him at the round table. Even so, his look to you cuts through the space. It is a level look that does not waver from its target. The jasper colors of amber and cinnamon interplay in the low-light of the tavern. "Your brother... he is a local businessman, an owner of brothels? He must be popular," Prospero mulls, sitting back with his brandy and taking another swallow. His mouth upturns in a slight, amused smile as you speak of your family. "My family ... I do not know if they would be considered boisterous. My older brothers, yes... my father and mother, no, not boisterous." He chuckles at the thoughts, his eyes lighting with humor at his own inside material.
     "I think you will like it," his voice is even as he glances to the bottle of the drink called Pom. "It is a specialty from my country. This was bottled on our own villa, from our vineyards and orchards. We plan to import it here. You soon will be able to some for yourself."

     You drop silver, but he has no such circumspection right now. Gold follows on the heels of silver, and Gwilym laughs. "If I lose, I will lose, and make up for all the times I have won," he declares. "I have won many a pot of gold, and taken away more than just that. And I am in the mood to enjoy losing as well as winning, tonight."
     "He should cut loose from Felix, then," Gwilym drawls, continuing in his boneless sliding way. "Here there are plenty of brothels to be had no matter one's persuasions. Just because I have not made the grand tour doesn't mean I don't know - I am more familiar with the brothels back at mother's."
     Mother's what is left off carelessly. He puts his hand on his cards, his face reddening as you look at him. His stomach is shrinking and tightening again. He draws a finger against his cards, then glances up at you. You're serious? His mouth twitches, and he chokes quietly. He will have to tell Io that. "No, no, my brother is - well, I suppose you could say he is local, though of course we grew up far from here... in the now named kingdom of the Flowering Tree. Mum has trouble making up her mind," he tacks on, apparently apropos of nothing. "But oes, Io's always been popular. More popular than me, in some circles!"
     What is there about you which sends him back to his boyhood, makes him feel as on the spot as ever the General managed? But where as a boy, he squirmed and tried to sneak out of his classes, this is not like that. "My father is calm - calmer than I am. Calmer than my brother's father," Gwilym answers you, having to struggle to think about it. And he flinches away from talking about his brother's father. It flashes on his face, that brief flinch. "Mum - oes, in her way. She can be. Me, well," he laughs, relaxing again, "I'll leave you to be the judge, oes?"
     You move on to the bottle and he looks at it, turning and leaning to peer at it, at its contents trapped inside. "I look forward to it. But let's get through the brandy," he hefts his glass in salute, "and the cards, oes? I fancy a dangerous game, I'm in that mood."

     He has not been in town long enough to know the kingdoms or the people you mention. Though his circles will take him to court, he has not yet presented himself to the king's attention, or to his minister's. He chuckles quietly as you speak of losing, an eyebrow lifting again like a cirrus cloud over the plains of his face. "You may get your wish. It is not often that I meet someone so cavalier with cash." Now, he grins.
     He calls your bet and then he reveals the devil's hand: the Jack of Diamonds paired with a 9 of hearts. "So, show your face to the devil," Prospero says leaning toward you, "... and we'll see who gets to feel the thrill of losing."
     Sitting back then, Prospero tilts his glass. He finishes the brandy with a healthy swallow. He seems to ponder its taste, its burn, and all the while his gaze does not leave you. He mulls you as much as it. How would you taste? How would you burn? Perhaps the questions are the same.
     As he waits for you to reveal your 'faith' to the devil, he empties the bottle of brandy between his glass and yours. "If you are in the mood for a dangerous game," comes the quiet ease of his voice, suffuse with the brandy's own heat, "... we should head to my suite." He lets it sit there for a moment, unqualified, and then smiles. "I have my share of swords and, of course, more Pom. There are bottles that Felix does not know about."
     He does not get to the complications of Romero and Felix, not yet. Taking up his refreshed glass, Prospero patiently waits for you to see your fate, for the coins to go as fortune decides, and for this offer to be accepted or not.

     "It would not be the first time I've stared the devil in the face." Gwilym laughs as he reaches for the cards. He turns them over; the King of Hearts ... and the Four of Diamonds. He cocks an eyebrow at you. "The hand goes to you, I'd think."
     And he is distracted, now, by far. His thoughts are taking him into adventurous country. What would it be like, to lose to you? He has had a taste of the pleasure of losing once before, in a vampire's bed. Unconsciously, he shifts his positioning, colour warming his face. The Celtic complexion makes it difficult to hide, when he has so cavalierly tossed away his defenses through brandy and other alcohol.
     Does he dare? He listens to your invitation, to the way your voice curls with your smile. Quickly, he downs the brandy you've just poured for him, then moves to stand. "Never let it be said that Gwilym ap Rhodri is afraid of a little danger in a game," he retorts with ease. "By all means, let us go and do things which would dismay the good Felix. I stand prepared!"
     Nowhere near prepared enough. Fantastic ideas coil in his brain, though all he thinks that you surely mean is the Pom...

     "Ah, the devil wins again," he grins. "But what can we do? He is the devil after all." He takes the coins, few though they are, and he places them in the coin purse at his hip. You rise, and he follows suit. Tall and trim, he cuts an imposing figure in his brown leather and crimson cloth. At his hip, a decorated scabbard belonging to a dagger rests beside a now-heavy money purse. The leather is the same chocolate hue as his hair and hugs his swordfighter physique. His doublet fits close to his torso, ending at his hips, to make it seem as if it is a one-piece outfit. Crimson cloth appears at his wrists and at his high collar, hinting at the clothing that lies beneath. It must be thin cloth, for there is no bulk to what you see.
     Taking the bottle of Pom, he nods for you to follow him. He leads you to the back of the tavern and through an arched doorway that leads to a mostly open colonnade connecting the tavern to the inn. Stepping from the limestone to the marble gravel, he passes beneath another archway, this the Byzantine-styled staircase leading to the suites. "I just arrived yesterday," he speaks quietly to you, slowing his gait to a saunter to make sure you, in your inebriation, can keep up. "Imagine my surprise to find such an inn as this on short notice. Were I not planning to build my own villa on the palatine hills, I might be convinced to stay here."
     He looks to you, that gaze still steady, still confident. Everything about him gives off an air of steady strength. He is comfortable in his own skin. Not arrogant -- he does not need to be. Proud, yes. When you and he reach the third floor, he takes out a key and unlocks the heavy, arched door.
     The suite is quite large, definitely lavish. He is no poor thief hoping to ambush you for your money. The main door leads into a main living area with two doors that lead to separate bedchambers. Maybe the other was for Romero. Maybe he is not using the other room. The floors are highly decorated mosaics, red and oranges and golds. They do not depict a particular image but rather an abstract and floral design. Like Alhambra or other parts of Islamic Spain or Istanbul itself, the floors and ceilings are amazing masterpieces.
     Prospero holds the door open for you. "Welcome to my little room." Humor is resonant on his voice, and the smokiness in it is surely from the burning resin of his own slight smile.

     His own clothing is thin and shadowed, white so predominant and close fitting enough to hint at his build while loose enough to flow. Despite his inebriation, he moves as gracefully as a dancer, brushing against you as he follows your slow gait. "It is a very pretty inn," Gwilym admits. "My brawd builds well. He has an imagination like none other."
     He brushes a hand against his hair, leaning against the wall as you open your doors. "Oh, oes? It is a good place to be. I have been visiting much, of late, though avoiding it for ... for some reason." He waves it off. "I don't remember why, just now." It can't have anything to do with visions! "Maybe I should stick around more."
     You are looking at him, and he is acutely conscious of the weight of it. He rubs his hand through his hair again, following you slowly into the suite. "Little?" His mouth twitches. "Diolch. If this is little to you, then I am afraid of what your basis for comparison is." Narrowly, he manages to avoid his gaze flickering down to try to gauge what you have in your trousers. He remembers his manners, even if not his discretion.
     He moves forward, now, muscles rolling like oiled snakes in the thin cloth as he peers at one of the mosaics with an appraising eye. But his interest is not professional, tonight. He has, for once, turned off his profession, his shell, almost entirely. Gwilym swings round to look at you again, arms dangling free at his sides. "So," he says with quiet companionability, "what next?"

     "We are fit tonight only for drinking and such dangers that can present themselves to men ensauced. I had thought of dueling," his smile trails over his lips, pulling them this way and that, "... but I think now... no. Not tonight. Maybe another day." Prospero closes the door, and locks it. "Feel free to take up whatever space you like. Romero and Felix will not be here tonight."
     You are not mistaken if you find a clue, a hint in that.
     "We can speak more freely here," he says. "There is only so much of my life I talk about in tabernas." Prospero moves toward you, unwrapping the golden wire around the bottle he holds. "We will have another drink. It is what we are good for tonight, si?" He smiles down at the bottle as the wire is unlocked around the cork. A hand on the neck, the other tugging the stopper until it pops free. Unlike champagne, there is no spraying or frothing of the liquid from its container, but it does spill its perfume into the air. It is a kind of brandy. There is something at once sweet and very fiery in it. There is the scent of saffron, of cinnamon.
     He passes you, closely enough for the aura he creates to brush against your own, and then he is past you, heading for a golden and marble table. He takes two glasses and begins to pour. The liquid has a kind of iridescence to it. It is pinkish, sparkling, and then deep red as it settles in the glass. Turning to you, he holds the drink aloft for you to come and take it.
     And now, out of the public area of the tavern, he lets his gaze settle on you, touch you, move you over his mind like brandy on the tongue. Those tiger's eye jasper eyes do not waver from you, and the look is not at all polite. "Can we be plain?" he remarks only when you approach. "I think we both know the dangerous game we'd prefer."
     The drink? It tastes of pomegranate, clove, cinnamon and saffron all blended to concoct what surely must be the nectar of kings from his own country. It is complex. It is subtle and then it is surprising. And it is very potent, not unlike he is.

     "Diolch," Gwilym answers you with a grin, watching you more even than you closing and locking the door. He is dimly aware of it, on some level, but only just; he is paying far more attention to what you do, how you look. "I do not talk much about myself, usually. Or I do, I talk about myself continually. But I do not say anything which means anything - in the tavern or not."
     You open the bottle, and he is transfixed with admiration, watching your fingers undo the gold. He does like gold; but it is your fingers far more that he is watching, thinking about. He is readily losing himself in such thoughts as brandy helps to inflame. And then you close in on him - no, you are passing him. He breathes in, as if to tell what you smell like rather than the Pom, and then he moves to fall into your orbit.
     The way you are looking at him, even before you speak, it sparks alternating currents of heat, warmth and cold to tingle in his chest. Duw...
     He almost says it aloud. He almost doesn't manage to take the glass from you, emerald eyes widening in unmitigated, undisguised surprise. Oh, but you have the advantage of him. He takes a gulp where he meant to take a sip, your words have him so startled. Dangerous games. Oh, oes, he wants dangerous games. It is strange, how much he wants to find himself entirely at your mercy, with mercy yours to choose whether to grant or deny.

     Somewhere in the back of Prospero's mind he wonders at the cause of this drinking. Is it to escape something? Is it merely to enjoy losing oneself, despite the rigors of the body that will follow? But such thoughts are in the background, like crickets chirping in the countryside.
     He chuckles, both eyebrows lifting, his own eyes widening a notch as you gulp. "I do not preach caution -- I leave that to my mother -- but I recommend you sip at the Pom. I would hate for you to collapse early."
     You do not respond to his query, which provides the loudest answer by far. He does not know who you are; you do not know who he is. Names only, and who knows if they are true, that is the only currency you have exchanged. The rest is mystery. Alluring in its secrets, like anonymous amorous play in the middle of the day. There are no masks of the tangible sort, but there are masks of a kind.
     Prospero sips at the Pom, tasting of the pomegranate and saffron, the clove and the cinnamon. A potent potion, this, though its only magic is that of the sun and what it is able to create. Another sip and he sets his glass on the marble table. And then he is in your space again, his aura sliding against your own, warmth exchanged even before bodies have touched. He takes your glass and sets it beside his own.
     It seems like a ritual, thick with a kind of magic. The only spell there is, is Desire. But what other incantation could come close to that? "You do not have to say anything of merit," he murmurs, smiling as he bends his head, his words brushing against your ear. "You do not have to tell the truth, or any truth tonight."
     His hands anchor at your hips in the same instant his mouth brushes at your ear. It is the opposite to lusting rush. It is studious, meticulous, purposeful desire. A sword that knows its mark does not need to be in a rush to strike it. "What greater risk than this? Anonymous encounters in strange tabernas in a new country. You could be anyone. I could be anyone. And we do it anyway, because we do not care."
     His mouth barely makes contact with your ear as his hands slide up to work the fastenings of your shirt. But the heat of his mouth, the fullness of it, the purpose and strength in it, the confidence that smoothes its way from his tongue to yours floods you. And the Pom and brandy flavor the fire, creating colors and tones in it.
     Your fittings and fastenings come loose, and his hands return to your hips, guiding you until you feel the presence of the sofa at the back of your legs. A slight push is all it takes to make you sit.
     He is smiling down at you as he unfastens his own clothing, the leather and cloth doublet going slack, showing his almond colored skin, the definition of his form. He is strong, lean, the body of a fighter. He lets you enjoy the sight of him undressing, even as he is taking obvious pleasure (it is quite blatant) in seeing you sitting on his sofa, wide-legged with clothing disheveled.
     "How many men have had the pleasure of this view?" Prospero wonders softly, evenly. "And do you not also wonder the same?"

     He is running, running, running, always seeking to escape his fears. Tonight he has found some small escape, in the arms of liqueur. And now, in your eyes. You do not know it. You do not know how much truth lies between you and he, here; he has not lied to you yet at all. Were he sober, were he in his usual frame of mind in the slightest, you would have far less of him than you do; you would grasp at shadows, and come away with nothing of substance. Insubstantial as mist...
     But he is here, solid and real; perhaps more solid, more real than he has been anywhere else. He trembles as your hands take hold of his hips, white heat plunging through him as if to cleave him in two. "For me," Gwilym turns his head slowly, to answer you as your hands shift and make him gasp, "the risk is not in anonymity but in Truth." He is telling you the truth. It is heady. It is frightening. And he is reveling in it, and in its risk.

Posted by rowan at February 10, 2007 07:58 PM