"Mum? Can you and da come to dinner? There's someone I want you to meet."
It was an interesting phone call, to say the least. Fiona had a difficult time not leaping to throttle information out of her middle son, who - of course - was as frustrating as his father. His throat was closed to giving away information, let alone for free, and she - well, she is as patient as ever, which is to say, not very.
For his own part, Gwilym Gwyn Garu has been busy. Not frantic, but calmly busy - he's set up the dining set in his suite in the palace, set up a dinner to be remembered. Emphasis on the food rather than on the decor - he intends to dress casually. Without pretense.
It is why he is in his jeans again, feet booted, with another t-shirt stolen from his father and the arms having been removed. The balcony doors are opened to allow the warm summer breeze to roll in from the ocean, the rays of late afternoon and early evening to light the interior.
And where are you? He does not chase you away. He would keep you nearby always, if it were possible. He stands at the edge of the balcony, looking out at the rolling ocean without really seeing it. "Ships on the horizon," Gwilym observes quietly. "Maybe my brother is on his way back. Or it could be some other ships. Who knows?"
His shoulder rests against the entrance to the balcony from the main living area of your palatial suites. Such apartments. Many kings would be envious, let alone princes, brothers of such kings. His gaze moves toward the sea and the approaching ships. "So many come and go from here," Prospero intones, his steps leading him slowly to you. Leaning against the marble railing, his arms folding on the sun-warmed stone, Prospero turns his gaze from the sea and its ships to you. There is the trailing of a smile. "I think if your brother were on one of those ships, we would hear some herald of trumpets, or at least the trampling of servants' feet in frantic preparations."
He is clothed as casually as he knows to be, at your suggestion. But he is a man who does not know how to dress down. His shirt is of ivory silk. It is a wrapped shirt, the fabric crisscrossing at his chest, with fitted sleeves and long cuffs. Over this, he wears a tunic jacket of cocoa-colored suede, with crimson and gold damask at the collar, pockets and the hem of his sleeves. The cuffs are likewise long, with seven small buttons each -- each button of hand-blown glass. The trousers are fitted brown leather. For as warm as it gets in the day, at night the winds turn cool, offering the needed relief of those who baked in the sun and its reflections off the sea. He boots come up over his ankles, the majority of them hidden beneath his trousers. They seem to have a Western feel to them, the boots of a caballero. It is what he is.
His curly dark brown hair is newly shorn, some of the waves just covering his ears, and the thick waves stay in place as he would have them. Two small gold hoops pierce his ears. If gypsies had kings, he would be it, this Andalucian prince.
Straightening, he turns to you, his hand lifting to rest against your back. You are nervous, but trying not to be. He? He is as steady as ever, his hand outstretched to you for you to anchor yourself to. "When are they expected?" Prospero wonders quietly.
"Probably." Gwilym turns his head to grin at you. "And Io would roll his eyes at the thought of such a commotion, even if he accepts it. Mmm... I like how you look." He murmurs that last, turning to move towards you, a hand out to you, to touch your waist and grasp you.
Like? Perhaps like is not a strong enough word. He turns again to the ocean, leaning back against you. "We should go hunting," Gwilym murmurs to you. "Take to some road and see what happens, oes? And yet, it seems almost redundant. Why should we need to go anywhere? I have run, will-I nil-I, through all the streets of whatever worlds I have found, in search of you. And here you are."
He falls silent, then, watching as you turn to him, and he smiles; lopsided, a quirk of one corner of his mouth. "Soon's mum finishes figuring out what to wear, really," Gwilym murmurs to you. "She's probably in a bit of a tizzy. Da'll have to tell her she looks beautiful and it's fine and then drag her off, probably, with her fussing at him but happy for the compliment all the same." He has had years to watch his parents. "At a guess? Any minute, now. There'll be a clamor of heralds - they'll probably appear in the garden, and have to fight their way through all the politics and noise of a king and a queen appearing, reminding the muckity-mucks that they are, after all, directly related to the high king and to me."
His reactions can be so subtle. Any but the most astute eye would surely miss them. But you can see them -- the lift and lower of his lashes when you speak of liking his look, the quirk of a corner of his lip, the warmth that exudes from beneath his skin, coloring the air between you, and heating it. "We will go hunting for other things, having found one another. That does not preclude a good chase. A ride, camping, hunting the stag or the fox or just our shadows."
Any minute now? "If it shall be at any moment, then I should make the most of the last moment of the peace and quiet." And so he does, taking the opportunity to kiss you. His breath has been sweetened with clove and cinnamon. "I love you," Prospero whispers between you.
He parts from your immediate space, stepping back to lean against the balcony. Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos is content to rest against the marble and study you. He smiles in summer laziness as his eyes take you in. You are held in the palm of his eyes, lifted and examined and remembered.
"Remember tonight to relax, caro mio. And to enjoy it, this time with me and your family."
Your smile is returned, a sudden blaze of white teeth, or warmth in eyes and skin. He has mellowed considerably in your presence, with your love; but there is that essential of him which has not changed. That charisma which, when unleashed, could wreak such havoc (and did), which could sway hearts both aware and unwitting (and did), which could ruin young men and young women alike (and did, although not as often as the rest).
"You bring out the best in me," Gwilym murmurs to you as you kiss him. He does not let you part right away, stepping to follow you for a quick embrace before he draws away. "I love you, too."
There is that warmth in his eyes. He has eyes only for you, the emerald green of them softening, as they so often do, from hard, distant stone to something warmer, something living. "I will relax as much as I ever can. I hope that they like you. But if not," Gwilym lifts his hands, then lets them fall, "it will not change how I feel. It will not change what I do."
And in the garden, there is the tensing of magic, power unwinding to open the way, from one world to another, from one garden to another. On the other side of it, Fiona is still fussing over her clothes. "I should have worn something more suitable to that world," she mutters, grousing as she smoothes down her dress. It's of watered silk, a strappy silver-blue sheath of a cocktail gown; vaguely high-couture of the 1920s, with a white wrap around her shoulders. It isn't casual, perhaps - but for her, it's comfortable. It is, in a sense, a suit of armour. Her long hair is braided simply in a four-strand braid, allowed to swing free. She wears - what else? Her husbands' gifts, the jewelry most significant to her heart.
Laughter is trailing, as gentle as your wrap around your shoulder, issues from the direction of your husband. He, like you, is dressed for a mortal, modern world, with a light jacket over a white button down shirt and light trousers that match the jacket. His red hair, which in this realm gleam with the Oak King's sun-backed energy, is cut in layers, a mess of auburn waves. Rhodri smiles, his hand resting lightly on your back. "You look beautiful, but like your son, I know you won't believe me."
He can't help the smile. You amuse him to no end, and his adoration is easy to read, on the surface as it is...
Tiger's eye colors sparkle in the wink he gives you. "I am not worried, beloved. I am confident in myself," the smile turns smoky in the warmth of his humor. "And in you. We should head inside," Prospero murmurs, reaching for your hand to lead you in with him.
His steadiness, his grace, his calm -- all these qualities are in full effect as he enters the palatial living area. The two of you princes, hand in hand you become with one another much more glorious creatures.
The only thing better than one prince is two...
"Why would I believe you? I know how glib your tongue is," Fiona murmurs, cheeks going a little pink. She leans up with one hand to tousle at your hair, then leaning up to kiss you. That adoration is a two-way street, for certes. "It means I'm not required to believe anything you say, Mister. Or is it your very royal majesty? Mm... maybe we should play pretend later tonight..."
She is mischievous and playful all of a sudden, moods glimmering through her like falling stars. She waves away a rush of courtiers. "We're here to see my son, go away, thank you. We're not in the mood for being on stage tonight."
Meanwhile, the aforementioned son is grinning at you, taking your hand with a looking of adoration not dissimilar to his mother's. "They will like you," Gwilym predicts. "You are filled with qualities worth the admiration. My parents are not blind; they will see it. In fact, I would be half surprised if neither of them offers you some sort of job, if only riding herd on me."
As if you would find it so difficult. Gwilym chuckles to himself, moving to the table to begin decanting the wine. They are here; he can feel the swell of magic, its ebb and flow, the shifting of shadows and the sound of commotion. Mum, you really ought to be nicer to people...
Unlike your other husband, Rhodri doesn't do you the favor of arguing with you. He's not that easily baited. He chuckles quietly as he nods to courtiers and gives a genial wave as he walks with you. "Oh, we will certainly play pretend," his voice eases from him like a quiet promise. Emerald eyes fix on you with an archer's aim, and his mouth quirks a conspiring smile.
"You know how I like make believe," Rhodri murmurs as the two of you head into Iowerth's basilica. He pauses the teasing to give the surroundings his attention. "No matter that I've seen this from the drawing board to the first hand viewing, this place startles me with its beauty. I do not know that I have dreams this big. And this is just one of his buildings."
He shakes his head, grinning as he walks with you. "Since when do you not want to be on stage? Isn't life the biggest play of all?"
Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos stands nearby as you decant the wine. There is no last minute rush, no additional preparation, nor even a quirk of obvious nervousness. He is sizing up the energy, sizing up his potential new family, he is moving through the political dance before the first strain of music plays -- as any warrior of his caliber would.
"The basilica is humming," he notes, turning to look at you with a troubadour smile. "I can hear it. The motion of servants' feet, the quick rhythm of excited speech." They are here.
Your wife squirms slightly inside her skin, inside her gown. It is invisible to anyone other than you, but you can see the trembling of her earrings, the sidelong brief peeking glance she gives you. "It's always these little touches of vanity which betray us," Fiona murmurs, lifting a hand to her earring. She looks up and around, smiling. "Io has always had a good eye. He's a dear little boy. Or was. He towers over me, now, just like the rest of you."
She makes her entrance regardless of what she says to the courtiers. You and she are like visiting movie stars; she smiles graciously, offering a small wave to the curious but shy who peek round corners (she's copied it from Her Majesty, Queen of England). "Everything has its place. I don't always feel like acting like anyone other than myself, though. Don't you feel the same way? I've been having cravings for sun-drenched gardens and bare feet, lately... hardly royal."
Your princely lover is looking a little more nervous now; he was not so nervous until it became a reality. Now there is the frisson of excitement, of tension. Will they be pleased? Disappointed? He didn't give them any real warning - they do not know they are meeting a man instead of a woman. They do not know, well, much of anything...
"They'll be walking through that door any moment," Gwilym murmurs to you, setting the now emptied bottle aside. He opens another, giving it time and room to breathe - room he no longer has. "Second thoughts? It's not too late to run off and join the Foreign Legion."
Rhodri looks at you, his fingertips curling against the fabric of your dress where his hand rests at the small of your back. You and he begin the climb to the summit of the palace. He should really install elevators, comes the random thought. "I am always myself," Rhodri notes. "It saves in dry cleaning." So droll. It is no wonder where Gwilym gets it.
"Barefeet and wandering in gardens -- what could be more royal than that, love? We're not the English monarchy in stiff shirts with stiffer lips," he chuckles at that. "You are royal no matter what you wear. You are my queen most especially," he murmurs, emerald eyes lingering on you, "...when you are in nothing at all..."
Turning to face you, Prospero straightens. A roll of his shoulders settles the suede tunic coat on his shoulders. He looks at you like you were a mirror, to see himself in the reflection of your eyes and your reactions. And the mirror he makes for you reflects back his calm confidence. "No second thoughts," he says. "I would not miss this opportunity for the world."
And he would not -- that is worn as easily as the coat on his back. "The wine is breathing," Prospero murmurs, leaning in toward you and smiling, "...and so should you. A deep breath, si? Hold it, and then let it go. It will be fine, caro mio." Placing two fingers to his full lips he presses them there and then gestures toward you, a distant kiss given.
It makes me tempted to just - pop in, but I know what we are like. It has too much potential for embarrassment. Fiona smiles at you, the warmth lingering in her eyes as they go from midden to summer sky blue. "You are always yourself," she agrees sweetly, "maddening, impertinent, troublesome, indirect..."
The litany of what you are continues up the stairs, her braid swaying with each step as she looks at you sidelong, watching for your reactions as she verbally pin-pricks you. She is goading you, even now, on your way to your son's dinner. Perhaps it is her way of compensation.
Or perhaps, she just likes to try and get a reaction out of you...
"No second thoughts," Gwilym echoes quietly. Green eyes meet your jasper ones, and suddenly, he smiles. There is nothing slow about it; it is there, sudden, immediate. "None at all. My oath on it."
He echoes your kiss, fingers to his lips and away. "Tigre negro," Gwilym murmurs. He turns from you, pacing towards the door, pulling the doors open in anticipation of his parents' arrival.
The nickname gets a response: an audible growl followed quickly by quiet laughter. As you head for the door, Prospero is turning from the wine and heading to take a position between the doorway and the first seating area. There is the waft of cinnamon as he moves...
I think that would be rather disastrous, Rhodri notes sotto voce, his mouth spreading in a sudden grin. "You forgot puzzling, enigmatic, and impossible to argue with..." He is laughing as you and he finally reach the private apartments. Across the hall, the joined apartments belonging to the king and his lover, both of whom are back in the Flowering Tree. Across the hall, the double-arched doors lead to the chambers of the king's twin.
"I wonder what he has in mind," Rhodri mulls as he knocks on the door. "Are you ready for this, sweetheart?" he says to you. "It could be earth-shattering. You know him...of course, he could just be calling us here to tell us he's going to join the circus. There's no telling..."
Gwilym half-closes his eyes in appreciate of your growl; you get a madcap grin before he turns to stand next to the doors. "Mum, da," he calls as his parents draw into his line of sight. "Come on in, won't y'? Dinner's getting cold."
He folds his arms over his chest, looking amused. Has he ever been this at ease? There is the frisson of tension; he does not know what will happen. But it is different...
Something is different...
Brute. Fiona bumps you slightly with her hip. With her other husband, this would lead to a scuffling match, leading in turn to kissing and giggling and tickling and wrestling. With you, you save it all up until later...
And that, in its own way, is something to look forward to...
"Darling child," Fiona calls out, just as drolly. She separates from her husband's side to move towards her middle son, arms lifting to embrace him, to rise on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She looks by far the younger; a 19 year old mother of a 20-something year old son. "I know you said casual, but I felt like wearing something pretty. I hope you don't mind too much. So ... what's this surprise...?"
She has never been known for her patience.
While mother kisses son and father waits his turn, the father takes note of the guest -- and has an idea that he keeps to himself. Soon enough it is his turn. Rhodri clasps his son's arm and then draws him in for a hug. "It's good to see you, boyo," he murmurs. "You look ..." balanced, he finishes beneath your skin. Your father's smile hangs at the corners of his lips and in the emerald of his eyes.
He waits to see you unfold it, unwrap it for yourself and perform the introductions.
Prospero is already on the move, his slow stride covering the distance. He meets your father's gaze first, your mother busy greeting you...
How like him you look, though he scarcely looks older than you. It is the vagaries of the Time of this Place that surely makes it so. To see the tree from which my apple sprung: how could I realize what it would mean?
He smiles as he looks to mother and son, his arms folding against his chest as he becomes a spectator in this scene. The love and admiration are easy to see -- these things are not buried in political vestments. They are on the surface for all to see...
Green eyes meet green eyes, and there is an answering sparkle from Gwilym's eyes as he finishes hugging his mother and moves to greet his father. "I'm doing well," he answers, aloud to your thought. "Well enough. You'll see." Or maybe you won't. But your eyes are sharp, as he has had occasion to know.
He turns from his parents to lead them into the room, leading them with a glance back before he steps to the side. "Mum, da, I'd like you to meet Prospero. We've been together for about two months, now, give or take. I realize this might be a little bit of a shock, but..."
it trails off. He is looking at them, a trifle warily, and he picks up his words where they've dropped. "He's important to me," Gwilym says simply. "In my life. And my family is important to me as well." He looks back to you, expression warming, a glow in his eyes, colour rising a bit in his face. "I hope you'll welcome him in as I have... to my family, my company. Pros, this's my mum and da. Queen Fiona," a waggle of a hand, "and King Rhodri, Prince Prospero. Meet and greet. There's wine to take the edge off."
To her credit, Fiona retains her composure. There is a flaring of mild surprise - but then, a rush of warmth. "Well, it's about time," she says with some asperity to her son, hands on her hips. "I was beginning to think you were never going to settle down and actually let yourself be happy. Tch. Just like your grandfather." And never mind it being like his mother. She smiles widely, radiantly, a hint of moisture making her eyes sparkle the more as she turns on one dainty heel, crossing to the imposingly tall Spaniard. "I," she states with dignity, "am very, very happy to meet you, and I refuse to call you 'your highness', and if you try and call me 'your majesty', I will exercise my royal prerogative to kick you in the shins."
She holds out both hands to you, warmth and humor vying with relief in her eyes; such compassion there, boundless capacity for love. "Call me Fiona, please. And thank you for saving my son."
Embarrassing moments, much? It's a shame no one brought a camera.
The force of personalities in this room could make one drunk. But he is used to courts, used to personalities -- those far grander than even himself. He takes the queen's hands as she presents them, holding them with graceful strength. "Fiona," Prospero smiles, giving in his smile the deference that Your Majesty might have contained. "It is a pleasure to meet you." It is work not to be formally courtly but he is game to try. "I shall not make you try to remember all of my names."
He takes note of her relief and her amusement, and his smile warms. His fingers squeeze hers as he finally sets them free. "My training as a priest will not then have been wasted," Prospero glides. "But I will say he did not need saving, certainly I am no savior, but I do love him. If that is the net that caught his fall, then so be it."
"Your Majesty," he says to the father, to the king, he does not extend the same casual regard to the king -- until the king himself requests it. "I have heard tales of your family and I am pleased to meet you. I am Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos," he glances to your mother with a slight wink -- glad you do not have to remember? "I am the prince of Andalucia, my father's youngest son."
Rhodri is taking measure not only of the situation but of those who find themselves in it. Fiona and her relief. His son, and his emotion, his love, his warmth. And this other prince, his son's chosen. He, unlike Fiona, is not surprised by his son's choice, or the circumstances of it. He extends his hand toward Prospero.
"Rhodri is fine, senor de los Santos," he offers easily. His smile is soon to follow. "A pleasure likewise. Please, no formalities among family," comes his assurance, waving thought of that away. His attention shifts to his son briefly before returning to his son's choice.
"My son wishes that his lover become part of this family. I wish nothing more than for my son to be happy. As he finally appears to be," Rhodri glances to his son again, hands parting with his son's lover. "We are all in agreement here. We should have some wine, indeed. I would like to know more about you."
His hand glances against his wife's shoulder and he bends, placing a kiss upon her ear. All things come to those who wait.
His face goes redder and redder by degrees, until he is blushing as red as any beet. "Mum," Gwilym squawks in protest. "I don't need saving, I'm a grown man!" He gives you a look, rolling his eyes with a reluctant grin. But he is embarrassed all the same. See what he has to put up with?
He has come to be a part of me so quickly. He speaks quietly to his father, below the threshold even of his mother's sensitive ears. I did not know it could happen - could be like this. Everything which was difficult has become so easy, da. I feel as if I can finally concentrate. Though, his grin tugs a little as he looks to his lover, harder when he is in the room, I grant.
"Your father is a lucky man," Fiona tells her son's lover forthrightly. "I wish he'd told us sooner; I'd have had you both over for dinner properly. But he probably wasn't sure how we'd react." Gwilym gets a tolerant look from his mother, beaming with youth as she is. "I won't try to be maternal to you; I'm sure, having a mother, you're not in need of another one. But you are always welcome, Prospero. I won't be memorizing any other names, no."
She smiles, moving back to her son and lightly cuffing his ear; then she drags him down to buss his cheek. "You're a silly young man, but we're very happy for you, darling. So does this mean you're going to get a job?"
On a lower frequency than even the grandfather could hear, your father's whisper sounds in your ear. And all the buzzing in your ears becomes silent and still. I remember what it was like, my first. By the time I met your mother, I had loved many times -- I knew what I was missing. But the first... was agonizing. It was like hearing the approach of an arrow but never feeling the strike. Dreading it, trying to shield myself from it, running, lashing out. Until I stood still long enough for it to hit me. I am happy for you. I could not be happier.
And all this before they even know him. Who he is, while important, is less so than simply the fact that you allowed it to happen in the first place.
Oes, well... I won't say anything on the nature of distraction. I don't want you to squeal in disgust with your new lover so close by. Your father's voice lilts lazily, first quietly in your ear, and then for everyone to hear: "Your mother is merely happy for you, Gwi. But if she did not embarrass you, what sort of mother would she be?" Turning toward Prospero, Rhodri goes for the decanter and glasses. "Andalucia," he asks, looking to Prospero again and trying to recall what he has heard of it. "I have been to Andalusia in Spain. Yet you are here, so there must be a link from Spain to this plane?"
The plains in Spain, indeed...
Prospero smiles to Fiona. "My father would be pleased to hear such, as would my mother. They have high expectations for my presence here." He chuckles as Fiona asks her son about a job. I know this conversation only too well, his look says to his lover. "I hope his brother shall employ us both," he offers. "Though in what way, I shall defer to the High King's judgment. As for Andalucia," he says in answer to Rhodri's question, "... it is in the part of the kingdoms we refer to as New Espana. It is a peninsula in the far west of the kingdoms, with both coast and desert. My family did originate from the Espana of history. We have been here now for ... five hundred years. Our origin, less magical and more a story of enchanted maps and mysterious sea wrecks."
Posted by rowan at March 07, 2007 01:14 PM
