My mind is midway between War and Peace. During the day, I stroll in the tranquility of Zafirah's presence and in her garden linger, discussing dreams, visions, plans, even my feelings on love. In the evenings, out of her presence, my mind turns to its own turbulence. To the words of the letter that began...
     By now, you must be wondering where I have gotten and what fool visions are floating in my head...
     I do wonder what is in his head, and what is in his heart. What was he thinking? He is heading into danger. And who is at his side? It is not I, but some new lover. What am I to make of this? He is a moving target. I know where he and his lover have been seen but by the time I can focus my eyes on him, he's gone again. Is he trying to out-run me or himself?
     I am at times worried, at other times jealous, at other times angry. I can hear the sea crash against my brain when those whirlpools claim me. The only time the noise stills is when my wife places her hand upon my arm and I walk with her in the garden again, among the towers that I have built for her.
     His fingers slide along the edge of the paper, the envelope that shows its shattered edge where he had torn it. It had been weeks without hearing from Tiernan by the time the letter arrived; it is now two weeks more since. Iowerth Rhudd Draig has not replied. Patience. He can hear Zafirah's refrain in his mind as he sits on his portico enjoying the last few moments of the day. The heat of summer days gives way to pleasant evenings of cool ocean breezes. Where he sits, he can look out upon the neighboring island and the new structures there, the dreams of Arabia risen again. On a quiet clear night, you can hear the houri singing.
     Iowerth sighs, his gaze going to the envelope again and then with a slight frown he tucks the letter away, sliding it between his skin and the waistband of midnight leathers. hands on the bench, he leans forward. His white shirt opened, untied, floating as the breeze catches it. His seadragons gaze out at the world as he turns his attention inward for yet another night.

     My head feels as if it has been broken open and my brains scrambled with Worcestershire sauce. But that is an improvement; a few hours ago, it was Tabasco. Gwilym has risen as from the dead. He woke in his own chambers, naked and definitely the worse for wear, with no recollection of the night before. Where was I? What did I do? I feel like the anvil of God.
     Such thoughts rolled round and around in his head as he showered, as he found clothes and gingerly he dressed. A pint of whiskey was remedy for all that ails him, potent but applicable remedy that it was.
     And now he stands upon the balcony, looking out at the same sea you might. Where ordinarily there would be words and thoughts, now he finds himself curiously blank. Ah well. What I don't know, there's little point in worrying about. Gwilym moves away from the balcony again. There is no real interest or peace in contemplation. Instead, he lifts his voice to where you may 'hear' it.
     Brawd? Are you busy? If not, would you favour me with a visit? I'm in your castle, you know, eating your food.

     He looks up as he hears your words not funneling down through his ear canal as sound would do but rather from within, humming at his inner ear and moving against his mind. His own thoughts are then diverted -- window shades pulled down on some; doors closed on others. Meet me on your balcony. The night is too nice to be inside.
     Your rooms are on the same level as his are (and Tiernan's), and though it would be a quick enough walk from his chambers to yours and then onto that balcony, it is even easier to transform to a bird and fly to your balcony directly.
     A seabird squats upon the wide marble railing -- the marble highly decorated and carved -- and as it shakes its head and feathers, it becomes a king.
     He is, indeed, a king. He is only beginning to recognize the ways in which he is changing, and these changes are all the more noticeable to others now that they may only see him sparingly. Since Zafirah returned, and his marriage completed, he has been on the Queens Island for much of the days, the functions of the kingdom already falling into the rhythm of well-oiled machinery. People put in place handle the day to day, leaving him free to plan, to dream, to create.
     It is that creative energy that glows around him. It is for this that he cannot return to the material plane; he would blind them with the amount of inspiration hanging around his head. His periwinkle eyes sparkle with lavender more than green, and the color of them seems to shimmer constantly, radiating that inspiration.
     There is a kind of peace around him, the effects of spending all day in the company of angels. It is also a sense of self, of realization. That is the crown he wears -- Self Awareness.
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig places his hands at the edge of the railing, hanging on as he perches there. Good afternoon, brawd.

     He moves back into place, leaning back against the marbled edge. He does not have a care for the heights so far below; he has never been afraid of heights. Closing his eyes, he is relaxed, elbows leaned, dressed in loose-fitting clean clothes of white and tan. You recognize the signs, though; he is not drunk, but the lassitude is to some extent that of one who does not wish to make sudden movements.
     Brawd... you look well. Better than I do. You look more complete than I have seen you. He says it without judgment, but with a certain weary resignation. You are changing, whether he likes it or not. You are changing ... and he has not. "How is married life treating you? Well, I hope."
     Emotions are threatening to crash in on him again; they are held at bay with relative ease for now, as if he holds his hand out like a police officer telling a vehicle to stop. Emerald eyes look to you, and one corner of his mouth tugs upwards, inwards. You're getting things done, aren't you. Always the overachiever.

     "Inside voice or outside voice?" he wonders softly. You have the look of a man who's known recent adventure. It is an understatement and the mother of all euphemisms. "Married life..." Iowerth wonders aloud. "Is interesting. I have a special bond with her. I respect her a great deal. I am trying to listen to her." Especially when she preaches: Patience, patience, Iowerth.
     I overachieve because I have no hobbies, comes the light response, airy, droll. I am keeping busy. I must. I am trying not to fight what I am becoming, and that is difficult. Has been and will continue to be difficult. But, he looks at you seriously, a breath released in a sigh, fighting this change was really causing me a great deal of agony. And even though I feel more at peace when I spend the day with Zafirah and we talk about the universe and how we all fit in what is happening, I am also less at peace than before. I wrestle with myself at night, and rely on Zafirah to calm me the next day.
     He peers at you, trying to put his feelings into words. I am lonely. I do not know if kings are always this alone but I suspect they are. He shrugs a little. "I am just doing what I can. I work. I put myself into that," Iowerth murmurs. "I put my energy and thoughts into building this Idea -- it is more Philosophy than kingdom -- and in that way I am not alone. Zafirah and I are working."
     We are all part of something greater than ourselves. I am tending to those things now. Maybe at some point in the future I will be able to simply enjoy myself again. To feel love and to have love in my life, in a bed. It is interesting. I have a wife who must remain chaste, and it is I who am willingly celibate. I do not feel that... oceanic lust anymore. It is just... not present in me.

     "Whichever voice you like. I am not holding any secrets at the moment. My barrel is empty, brawd." Gwilym closes his eyes, letting his head tip back. I miss you. I will have to go on missing you, though. You serve a higher purpose than mine, and I cannot be selfish.
     Such thoughts. But the emotions are stopped at the door, kept at bay; they are not overwhelming him, for the moment. Emerald eyes open, and he both sighs and smiles. "You are working very hard. Its repercussions are moving. And ... I found ... someone," he recalls, "what's his name? You know the one. Ah. Draconis." He snaps his fingers. Damn, but how much did he drink? "We should talk about that. Or do you already know?"
     You are his brother. His eyes echo something, and abruptly, he looks away. I am glad if it is a willing celibacy, at least. What is it you would like me to do? Is there anything?
     Send me away, if you wish, and I will not argue. Do as you must, brawd, though you do not hear these words that I think to myself. Ah, if I were but a curlew, skimming the waves - I could fly so far, so fast as to lose myself.

     "I wish there were something you could do for me," he smiles a little. "Other than being here. It is good to have you here," he murmurs, "... though I do not get to see you often, it is good to know that you are nearby. That when I have time, I can spend some of it with you."
     Iowerth comes over to sit beside you. You are his twin, his touchstone, the star that guides him. I have never formally met Draconis, though I know he is in the vicinity. Some of The Hunt are. As for your purpose, higher or not, it will be revealed to you, Gwilym. You will know it when it shows itself to you.
     He shrugs slightly. Willing. Unwilling. What is the difference? "I think part of it is I am still upset," he smirks a bit. "And I don't know what to do about it other than to try not to be upset about what I cannot control. I may be king. I am not god." He only knows that too well now. Iowerth looks at you, the gaze layered with love in all its varieties when it comes to you. I don't want to use you, Gwilym. You deserve better than that, particularly from me. So... no... there is nothing you can do to soothe me. His hand comes to land on your shoulder and he kneads it for a moment, patting it finally before drawing his hand away to rest on the marble again.
     "What is it you would like to talk about regarding Draconis? Should I be concerned? I have not dealt with The Hunt directly. That time is coming. I will have to call them to me to see if they will heed the call. I have had so much on my mind. But I need to rectify that." He recognizes that going too long without saying something to them would be a mistake.
     Your barrel is empty. Iowerth looks to you sympathetically, knowingly. You will fill up again. It has happened before. It is cyclical with you. But if there is anything I can do for you, please let me know.

     "I am nearby," Gwilym agrees quietly. "I am always near when you need me, brawd. That will never change." His hand lifts, drops onto your shoulder for a brief squeeze, then falls. "You are my brother. As much a touchstone for me as anything else; with you, I don't need luck."
     He echoes you, without meaning to; an unconscious similarity, shared between twins. He is in the vicinity. He is your father, Luke. He grimaces. That was a bad turn. He seems ... not to remember me. I do not understand it, but I recognized him when he lowered his hood. It gave me a very bad turn. And he invited me... he wants me to join the Hunt.
     Now you know why he is so shaken. He has had a very bad turn. "They will heed the call. Of that much, I am certain. You should call them, even if you do not have a quest or guise for them. Find out what they know - what they have heard. Recognize them, and let them recognize you. Think of it as polishing a sword - you don't leave a sword out in the rain all neglected, do you?"
     Gwilym closes his eyes, shaking his head, then. Something is changing again. It is not like before, but I do not know what. I am not overwhelmed, Io - I just ... I am. I am going to stay here for a little while. Now, not because of you so much - you don't need me anymore. He senses it. Not in the way you used to; you have changed too much. There is a regret for it, but he does not let much of it show - nothing to make you feel guilt. I just ... need to gather myself. Something happened ... I wish I knew what.

     Your words and thoughts on Draconis cause your brother-the-king to peer at you in confusion. Draconis is... who? My father? He considers this but does not really understand it. Why would papa not recognize you? That is strange. An invitation to join The Hunt. I do not recall the last time one was made. Maybe for your father, he considers.
     Turning his head, he looks at you, his arm going around your shoulders. Few will share the embrace of this king; few will feel inspiration this closely. You are one of those few. He can be frightening, but he loves you. Why he would not recognize you, I cannot answer. Perhaps Draconis is just one aspect of his power or soul. There's no telling. But... you ... what shall you do with this invitation, brother?
     "I will call them soon," Iowerth agrees. "I cannot let the summons sit too long." He hugs you lightly, the draws his arm away. I will always need my brother, my twin. Always. Your counsel has always been on the mark. Where would I be without it? But regardless of why you stay, periwinkle eyes look to you with steady gaze, you are always welcome, Gwilym. No person holds the position in my heart that you hold. His hand goes to your hair and he lightly ruffles it. His touch recedes with a final pat upon your back.
     "Something happened... is happening," he concurs. "We are in another season of change, of upheaval. I hope yours is less rocky than my own, brawd. Or at least shorter in duration," he finishes in a murmur. He looks at you again. "I understand. I just... I Am as well." Iowerth exhales at that. It is a strange time, and all he can do is keep his feet grounded in the Present.

     He did not frighten me - or not like you mean. Gwilym grimaces a little, shaking his head. I will not go on about it. But to join the Hunt - the invitation is frightening. And it weighs more, when it comes from your father.
     He sighs, leaning his weight against you heavily. He shares in your energy without taking from it. I do not know what I will do. I do not know what I want; but it is a difficult thing. I am not ready for it. He admits it. It is a heavy commitment, brawd. It is not even like marriage; you can get out of a marriage without dying. Once you join the Hunt, that's it. You're in it for life, and you can't get out. Even you can step down as king if you choose, as long as you nominate someone else.
     That stark and utter level of commitment frightens him. He is as skittish as a horse scenting fire, nostrils flaring for a moment as he blows air out from between his lips. Gwilym turns into your head, clapping you on the back before you and he draw again apart. "Things have changed again," he whispers. "Like you, I seem rooted here ... for now, at least, I am again here, and not there. Not in the world of our parents, where they spend the most and the main of their time. So ... I am here. Something has happened, but duw, who knows what?"
     He expels a breath. What unexpected thing will happen next?

Posted by rowan at February 13, 2007 09:22 PM