One hazy summer afternoon has turned into more; moments spent entwined, talking quietly, kissing, thrusting, moaning loudly, bathing or showering, eating - but with a togetherness that has surpassed his comprehension. Not that Gwilym has complained. Rather, he has been an active and equal participant in the writhing, trembling, assured partnership that has begun to grow. And he has no intention of removing himself now.
     Not for long, anyway - but once in a while, other duties do call. He has bathed (not alone), a process which ended up taking more hours than he'd intended. Finally, he worked his way free of his lover, free to dress himself, to close his doors quietly on Prospero's long and naked figure. With a smirk.
     His thoughts move ahead of him, before even his knuckles rap lightly on the High King's outermost chamber door. Brawd? Are you busy? What a question, you're always busy. But ... do you have time for me? I'll try not to take up too much ...

     You hear not your brother's voice in your head -- not yet anyway -- but the sound of his voice through the door. Let him in please, he tells someone mid-stream of another sentence. You hear his voice continue without missing a beat, picking up on his other stream of thought as if there had never been an interruption.
     I always have a few moments for my brother.
     The door opens for you, and the attending servant bows his head as you are seen. You are royal, and are given the royal deference due to you. What the opening door reveals is a small household in motion, preparations underway for something, certainly. Clothes are being prepared and a trunk carried past you and out of the chamber. In the center of all this activity is your brother. The inspiration that he now represents halos him like visible light. He is becoming the expression of glamour. He is clothed in white, his color of late, and his blue seadragons are visible at his arms where short sleeves end. His fiery copper hair is growing longer, starting to wave and curl, the many layers giving him a poetically mussed appearance that is strangely orderly and purposeful. It is not random.
     He turns as you enter, his periwinkle eyes fixing on you with warm affection, though his mind is distracted. Something is very clearly up. ""That will be all for now. The rest I can tend to en route," he says to the gentleman standing with him, a folder of papers (work in progress, work to be done). The gentleman you recognize -- it's his Chamberlain.
     Something is most definitely up.
     The Chamberlain boys to you, his silver hair gleaming in your brother's glow. "Certainly, Your Excellence," he says to your brother, bowing to him. He then turns to you and bows his head as well. "Your grace." But he does not linger to dwell in royal favor. There is much to do.
     Come, on the balcony, your brother's voice dawns on you suddenly. Out of the hurly-burly. Iowerth turns, heading for the double doors that lead to the grand balcony and its enviable view.

     He blinks. How long have I been asleep? Am I dreaming? Discreetly, he pinches himself as he steps inside. That would explain Prospero. Hopefully not a dream.
     Your brother is dressed casually - comfortably, in somewhat loose-fitting clothes that do not catch on edges or stick to flesh. A long-sleeved white cotton shirt has its collar buttoned over the throat, untucked from a pair of denim trousers - beach comber pants, with a pair of sandals on his feet. He looks like he's been vacationing in Hawaii, only without the sunburn that he would surely get then.
     He strolls in with an air of peering over the rims of his sunglasses, then passes a hand back over his hair. "Seems as if I'm interrupting plans for the war," Gwilym says easily. "Who are we invading, or contrariwise, who's invading us?" No, he isn't serious. You aren't grim enough right now for that. He walks in very easily, raising his eyebrows again. Your grace? Have I been promoted or demoted? With a quick grin, he moves to join you on the balcony, the question asked mind to mind without expecting answer.
     You seem busy ... what's going on, Io?

     That depends on your mood, he thinks to think. He comes to stand on the balcony, the ocean at his back. "I am heading to mother's kingdom," he says aloud -- it's no secret. "Tiernan and his...companion," his voice softens upon that term -- he's still not sure what to make of it, and he's certain that, whatever it is, he doesn't like it, "... are there. I have received word that Tiernan was wounded in several skirmishes. Going into... or coming out of the kingdom of the Winter Diamond. I do not think his injuries are life threatening," he exhales at that, "...but information is still conflicting as to how severely and how and where. I will be leaving tomorrow with a four-ship escort. No war, not yet," he gives you a look.
     But there may come a time, depending on what has happened...
     I'm sorry I've been distant. The king apologizes as all kings before him have probably done. How have you been?

     "My mood is fine." Gwilym reclines against the balcony, listening to what you have to say without comment or conflict. There is a brief sharpening of his attention as he listens to you. You must be hurting. That's a lot hitting very close to home.
     He says it without words, with a look of compassion given to you, glance exchanged, much like your mother and his. He crosses to lean next to you instead, a hand patting lightly at your shoulder before being allowed to fall. "I'm glad he's alive. He seems nice enough. Devoted to you," he tacks on, "and none too sure of who he is, but that goes with darkness, I think. You have to pass through a lot of darkness before you find the light."
     Optimistic words, for him. Gwilym grins at you, then sobers, straightening a little as he folds his arms, looking to you. "And if you are going, are you bringing him back?" There seems a point behind the question. Eyes as green as shade-grown grass look at you, not without their concern, not without their interest - softer, now, than they have been for some time, nonetheless.
     You've been distant, I've been distant, we've both been busy. How do I seem to you? He counters your question with a question, the corners of his mouth lifting, tugging slightly. I'm fine, Io. My brother, the worrier. I am worried about you, though. Talk to me.

     Those periwinkle eyes lift to you and linger there a moment in his thought. I don't know. I probably won't know until I see him. There is a nod to your words. "He is alive. I have received scattered reports of the battles. There were four or five, at least. But I don't have a lot of information yet. The distance makes it tough. That kingdom's on the opposite end of the spectrum -- in all ways," he adds with a droll tug to his voice. Not that he's ever been there.
     He looks at you after your Hallmark optimism, cocking his head to the side and lifting an eyebrow at it. He has to take a second look at you just to see if you're having him on. You seem... better, actually. And now the king is studying you. Most would wither under that kind of intense and powerful study. "You... seem... rather centered," Iowerth notes quietly. "You will have to tell me how you did it."
     For a moment, he lifts a hand to the bridge of his nose, squeezing. I do not know how I feel. Conflicted. I do hope he is alright. I do not know what I am going to find... either physically or emotionally. It's been two months...three... but ... much has changed.
     I have changed, Iowerth thinks after another moment's passing, his hand lowering. He looks at you. I both want to see him and don't wish to see him. I am afraid that if i do, I will realize how much I have changed, how different we are, that we are truly in the Past...
     "But," he exhales, a smirk trailing after his breath. "I cannot sit here while he is possibly bleeding somewhere, can I? So I will stay in the royal palace and demand special treatment from mother. It won't be a completely wasted endeavor."

     He listens to you without passing judgment, quiet scrutiny in his gaze. There is warmth there, and support, silent and unquestioning. You are his brother. You will always be that to him, no matter what else. "The distance is far, but you know, you could ask me," Gwilym tells you mildly. You have not. He wonders why. "For me, few journeys are longer than a few minutes, unless I run into hell-beasts of one sort or another."
     I am better. I am in love. It is a little frightening to say that, and I feel my heart jump, or maybe it is my stomach, when I say it even to you. But it is true and it deserves to be said.
     You are given truth as a gift, honesty allowed to flow freely between you. Perhaps it is a first. Though you and he are alone, there is none of the tension with which such confessions are usually fraught. Gwilym smiles at you, a lopsided, half-abashed grin with a hint of a self-mocking smirk. Him. In love. How ridiculous is that?
     I am not surprised you are conflicted. And I can imagine it would be painful. But brawd, you do not have to take all this, Gwilym waves a hand at your retinue, your court, your palace, with you - unless you want to. I could take you there and you could be there before it's time for tea. Of course, if you are making it an official visit, he smirks again at you, then that is different. I am of two minds on that topic.
     He looks at you a moment longer, then settles on the edge of the balcony again with a slow, low exhale. He speaks out loud, as if to underscore what he is thinking, what he is saying. "There is nothing like red tape to put distance between yourself and someone else. But you are the high king; it is who and what you are. If that is what you want him to see - or if you need to make that point to others - then obviously, the retinue is needed. Otherwise?" Gwilym shrugs, then chuckles. "I could take you there in time for tea, and be back before dinner. If you so choose. Not that mother'd object to your demands. She's too soft on you!"

     He peers at you, your brother does, and he looks appropriately astonished. You have never uttered those words before, not about anyone. "Jupiter?" he asks quietly, his attention turned for the moment. Can you see his joy for you? Can you see his own happiness that you are, at last, enjoying something for yourself, allowing yourself to love. "It is frightening to say, but nothing is quite as freeing as admitting it. I remember that feeling," your brother smiles at you.
     "It shall be an official visit," he says at last, returning to the matter at hand. "It must be for a variety of reasons. My days of slinking in shadows are over. I'm not sure shadows would permit me now. I appreciate your offer all the same. The Draigamor is a speedy vessel. We will fold time as we can. I... feel that my watery nature has altered," he speaks it softly between you. "The marks are still on my skin, but they will not remain the same for long. The whirlpools have already changed." He seems somewhat wistful at that. Captain Io is forever and firmly planted in the past.
     That seems to be the recurrent theme of late. All those things of his youth, all those things has loved are become part of Yesterday as the future begins to take shape.
     Wistfulness. That is the quality that hovers around him. Resigned to the change, and yet missing those things, those people, those times, that Iowerth. "I am the High King. It is what... and who I am. I can no more hide it than tiger its stripes. I am... now unable to pretend. And he should see me as I am."
     Your brother puts an end to the distance, slight though it is, that exists between you. One emotional gulf is quite sufficient in his mind; no need to harbor any others. He places an arm around your shoulder and draws you in for a hug. He is magnificent in all the literal and figurative meanings of the word. "I want to hear about your news," he murmurs. "How long have you known?"

     "No. Not Jupiter." Does that surprise you more, or does that surprise you less? Gwilym runs his hand back through his hair, offering you that lopsided smile. "I am in love. And it scares the living shite out of me, brawd. But I can do nothing about it. Except be happy."
     An official visit. He listens to you with a slow nod, watching you intently. He sees your emotion, and he moves towards you, his hand again on your shoulder, squeezing. "You are who you are. But what you were is still a part of you, even if in your past. Don't discard it, Io. That's all I have to recommend. Don't put it between you. If you have changed - if he has changed - he may still have something of worth to say to you. Wait and see and don't borrow the trouble that I know you and I always flinch to anticipate."
     Your hug is returned, his hand clapping to your back. How long? That depends entirely on whether you count what I have forgotten. Gwilym draws in a breath as he leans in, touching his forehead to yours. "I got drunk," he murmurs to you in candid admission. "Drunker than you have ever seen me. And that is when I met him. And I could remember nothing, the next day. Nothing. It was not for another couple of weeks that he saw me again - and scared the living shite out of me. I thought it was my nemesis, my death stalking me from a vision. Instead..."
     He shrugs, grin still askew. He is alive. He is in love. "I want you to meet him when you have the time. He is very smart. He is charming. He is calm and confident and balanced. I think you would be able to find good use for him. If he stays here, I will as well - not that I expect you to base your decisions on it. But ... if he is here, I will be here. Where he is, I will be. I am settling down, brawd."

     "I am glad it is not Jupiter," he says quietly. "I was prepared to support you all the way to hell itself, Gwilym, but ... I am glad we do not have to make that journey. I very much wish to meet the love of yours. And ... your recommendation holds... enormous weight with me. You are in my heart," he smiles. "And I am thrilled for you. What is his name? Smart, charming. He sounds as if he is worthy of you."
     And Jupiter never was. He would have pulled you down with him in the darkness where he lives.
     "Astonishing," Iowerth exhales, an eyebrow lifting. "For a while there, I thought I might never hear you say those words. I wish you both the best. And I will meet him, he will be my first appointment when I return. I promise. For what could be more important to me than my twin soul's happiness?" He even places it ahead of his own. That is what good kings do.
     "I am not discarding it," he says in a hush, separating from your hug to lean once more against the marble railing of his balcony. "But I am recognizing its passing, brawd. My past, my loves, my decisions, they are all part of what I have become, a reason for my being here. But ... I am not where and who I was then. And I cannot go back to that. I will miss the young man in the captain's coat. I will see him again," he smiles a little, "... I am sure I will, when I see my first son."
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig is quiet for a moment, and his aspect changes. It hardens subtly. "Certain materials have appeared from Tiernan," he notes. "I will have to review them more carefully on my trip. He and Agapios... quite clearly... have suffered entering and exiting his mother's kingdom. I do not think I will need to call on you for military purposes, but I may need to confer with you more on what you saw and experienced there. I feel that the sector has been too long ignored. And I do not intend to live with such instability. I will... let you know more what I find out. I will keep you informed."

     "Prospero something something Spanish, takes too long to memorize, you can ask him yourself when you meet him," Gwilym tells you with a grin. "Spanish. I spend far too much time hanging onto him. He is of royal birth, but is more akin to me than to you; third son. Though I suppose eventually da will get tired of running things, so I was thinking you might have a few odd jobs for me to do, to get in a little practice. You know - so if he or mum ever get bored and decide to foist a job off onto me, I might actually be halfway competent."
     Hark. Was that Gabriel blowing his horn?
     He grins at you, and his cheeks flood with colour. Your brother is blushing. It is a mirage, isn't it? "He makes me happy," Gwilym says quietly to you, admitting it as if a shy and vast secret. "He makes me feel worthwhile. I ... do not know how he does it. But he brings something to me, just by his look, that makes me feel like a girl receiving flowers for the first time. It is silly, oes - but I don't care."
     He looks to you again, with keen attunement. "You will see it in him," he predicts. "But I think you will be having some surprises in your life as well. You tend to dig into your ruts too deeply, and you need them. Try not to rear back too vigorously when they come, Io."
     And you change again, even if slightly, with your moment of quiet. His aspect changes as well; he nods slowly, eyes glittering to hard emeralds. "If you need me," Gwilym says crisply, "I am of course available to you, brawd. We do not tend to speak of that place," he refers to himself and those others who were there, "but it is foul. I will be ready for you when you call. Well." He grins again, suddenly, and amends, "I will try to be ready. It depends when you call."

     If he didn't know better, he'd think it were the first stirrings of Armageddon. But your brother merely smiles. "I will find something. There is much to be done, brawd. We will talk more, oes? When I return. I would like to find out what sort of things you might be interested in... or at least, what you absolutely would not want to do. Whatever you wish," he murmurs, "... my twin, it will be yours."
     As you describe your Prospero (a very fortuitous name), your brother begins to beam. He folds his arms against his chest. With his periwinkle to lavender eyes, his white clothing, and his red hair he is practically giving off light. Magically, he is. "I am looking forward to meeting him, the man who has made you feel your worth, who has made you so happy. I owe him my gratitude. It is ... such a relief, brawd, to see you this way. To know that... you understand now... how life can be, and how you can feel joy. You are worthy of it. You deserve it. And I do not have to worry anymore that you will never allow yourself the pleasure. For here you are."
     You are in love. And it only serves to point out to his own heart that his emotions are far more conflicted. Is he in love? He is not sure. For the first time since the first stirrings of his emotion for Tiernan, Iowerth is not sure. But it does not dampen his spirit for you.
     "I will need you," he answers shortly on the other topic. "Once I have a chance to read over what I have received, I will ...call you." He taps his temple. Free long distance minutes, his thoughts to yours.
     Iowerth chuckles shortly, suddenly, softly as you mention his rearing at surprise. Surprises for me? I do not think so, so his eyes say. "I do not know what you mean," comes the familiar droll tone -- he hasn't lost it entirely, no matter how serene he might appear and speak these days. "The only rut that occupies me is that of my daily meetings with the Chancellor..."

     "Bah. We will discuss work later. I am not quite ready to quit myself of mindless pleasure, anyway." Gwilym grins at you, the same reckless grin - but without the tension behind it. Without the hidden knots of despair. His eyes dance with mirth, the mischief unquieted, but without the urge to hurl himself into oblivion.
     Your star has not fallen. He remains more firmly affixed in the heavens than before...
     "I will be available, my king," Gwilym claps his fist to his heart, giving you a mock bow. You are his king. But he is and ever will be your brother, and with that, there will always be that slight element of the jester, even if he wears no bells, no motley. "And I will continue to point out your rut as if the emperor has no clothes. Go." He straightens, clapping both hands to your shoulders as he looks at you, his gaze intent on yours. For a moment, he is silent.
     "Go learn the truth," Gwilym says finally. "Even with your changes, you won't be free of your own despair. It may not be much, but I can smell it. I bathed in it long enough. You will know how to reach me, after all, oes? But you know I love you. And I am proud of you. Even if I am a donkey's ass."

     "The ass of an ass?" your brother teases. He exhales and pushes off the marble railing. Preparations are continuing without him, but the time is coming for him to go. Your brother gives you another hug, his hand clapping on your shoulder as he lets you go. "I do not know that it is despair, but certainly it is sadness."
     He smiles at you purely, his hand messing about in your hair, before it draws away. He smiles, happy for you though he does not know where his own heart is heading. Or ... he knows and he dreads it. Either way, does it not feel the same?
     "Enjoy yourself. I will try not to call too often. I am sure you... will be ...busy." He chuckles at that suddenly and glances back to you. "I will talk to you later. Tell your lover I look forward to meeting him."
     With that your brother leaves you, his stride slow and graceful, that serene regal energy yet intact. The swirling seas are no more. They have been exchanged for swirling stars. Whirlpools have been traded in for galaxies. Somehow his own pain seems so small.

Posted by rowan at February 22, 2007 07:47 AM