He never appears when you are in company, only when you are alone. It is as if he is your shadow, a figment which appears to you and you only; and in some ways, that is precisely what he is. Your twin. Your darker half. And he has only gotten darker as the years have worn on, hasn't he? But oh so brilliant at the same time...
     He appears to you now, without dramatics, coalescing from shadows into the sitting room of your suite. Do you recognize him? His jaw is framed by trimmed beard of blazing red, the hair on his head longer than he habitually has been wearing it. Under one arm, a dark metal helmet is tucked, and he wears soot-stained armour so that it's a wonder he doesn't clank with every step. And yet, he does not. He is as silent as he always is.
     Those clever emerald-fox eyes glance around for a moment, and his smile is the same as you have always known it - mercurial and spreading and too knowing for his own or anyone else's good. His free hand comes up, sweeping his hair back from his face and leaving it in an uproar; he ignores the sword at his waist, turning to set his helmet down.
     "Brawd," Gwilym Gwyn Garu, the Holly King greets you, smirking. "Happy new year, oes? Did you ring out the old the way I hope you did?"

     It is hard to catch the High King when he is not in company; rare are those moments of solitude and complete quiet. But late at night, when husband and wife are in their separate beds and child and all the court (but for the evening guards) are in bed, those are the moments, the minutes, the sometimes hours where he might be found without company and in the quietude of regal thoughts.
     You appear out of nothing, you stir without sound, and for a moment you can see the king in a moment of truth: eyes closed, fingers steepled at his mouth. The crown does not sit heavily; his expression is one of lightness. But there is Contemplation and Consideration. You can even see his eyes moving, as if following the quick darting of his thoughts, beneath the thin layer of his eyelids. He is in his bed clothes, dressed only because it's cold. The winter holidays and festivals have come and gone, and though winter is steadily quick-marching into spring, it is cold enough yet for a fire, for warm drinks, and for having to wear a mantle and cloak when away from the thick bed coverings.
     That moment of repose is ended, however, when he feels you near and then he hears your voice, his suspicion confirmed with a grin. "Brawd." He rises and he takes a look at you. You, Your Majesty. He felt the crowning. He's dreamed it now and then. But it is a matter of the Present, not the Future. It is just as surprising as if he'd never suspected. He comes round to embrace you, armor and all.
     Laughing quietly, he gives you a look. He has celebrated. Boisterously. "I had a very nice holiday, yes. The festivals were very lively. You were missed, though I'm glad to see you now. I sent gifts to Powis like Santa Claus." Even though that's not my job.
     "I'd ask you how you've spent the holiday, but I can see you've been busy." Iowerth Rhudd Draig grins to his brother, hand on the armored arm. "Come, have a drink. There's warm spice wine, hot buttered rum, and heavily spiced alcohol-laden coffee." He gestures to the sofa by the fire. "You look like King Arthur. Father would be pleased. How have you been?"

     "Busy, oes." Gwilym smiles at you, but there is a quietness in his countenance. His youth and vitality are still there, but worn beneath the surface; beneath the armour. There is no suggestion of boisterousness in his movements, and he moves to follow you to the sofa. "I have been ... very busy."
     It came upon me suddenly, unawares. One day I was not, and now I am. And I have not had time to think about what I am, or what it means. Such questions have stopped seeming important, when there is so much work to be done.
     You may pick up on his thoughts, though they are unaimed; open to exchange, but without real intent. Your brother sinks down, leaning forward slightly; as if, should he relax, take rest, he might never rise again. "Coffee - oh, duw, I could go for some coffee," he groans. "My feet feel like they've died and been buried in sardines. Probably how they smell, too."
     A gauntleted hand pats lightly at you, as if worried he might hurt you by accident. Gwilym smiles at you, expression thoughtful. "I am taking the Broken Lands, brawd. Bit by bit. Piece by piece." Isn't that just like him? He announces it so casually. "I know your gifts were well received. Gleeful eyes and hands greedily tore into them. Mum misses you, though."

     "I miss her too," he says. He shares that with you, but he grins all the while, and does not allow himself to become melancholy. Beside you, though you are the King of Plenty, appears a rich and spiced coffee courtesy of your brother. Brandy included. With the tilting of his smile, Iowerth settles back. "You should avail yourself of the royal baths before you head back to it. I should hate for you to develop barnacles. It would do nothing for your vanity."
     He is quiet as he listens to you talk about your work. Well, not talk -- more like off-handedly mention. A copper eyebrow lifts, his smile tempering in his interest. A mug of hot buttered rum appears in his grasp. He sips it with an intrigued smile. "I had a feeling. I've been... dreaming about you lately. A lot of twisting ivy." He chuckles suddenly, sipping at the drink. "I thought I was merely.... reminiscing about our misspent youth." When you and he were far more tangled than ivy on the jungle floor.
     Our connection is as strong as ever. I felt you out there. Iowerth holds the mug, holds its warmth. That warmth is echoed in those periwinkle eyes. His green all but gone with the taking of his own crown. "Is there anything I can do to support you?" Behind the scenes, of course. He can't be seen giving preference among kings. Though who could doubt his impartiality when it comes to you, his twin? "You have only to hint," Iowerth grins. "You don't even have to completely ask... you know that..."

     "Misspent, bah." Your brother lifts the coffee with a salute of thanks. "Every minute was spent wisely and well. I've gotten a lot of use out of it, anyway." Gwilym smiles at you, and for a moment, it is the wicked smile you remember. "I miss it too," he confides in you, and he takes a swallow of coffee, thirstily so.
     I am no longer with him. You know who he means. You knew it was coming. You can see it now, too; there is a faint loneliness, but there is purpose overriding it. He has not given himself time to think about it. He has his work. Instead, I have a thousand men who ride with me, and while I like the view... I don't sample.
     Your brother smirks again. Between the Hunt and his kingdom - oh, oes, he has been busy. "Send farmers if you have any to spare. Immigrants. People in need of a place to live and land to farm, land to clear. The old witch's kingdom is now solidly mine, but even ten thousand warriors are still warriors and not craftsmen, tradeswomen. Come spring, there's planting to be done, trading to be done. I've thrown open my coffers for the job, Io. And you know how much money I've amassed."
     Or maybe you don't. But you can guess; your brother is and was King of Thieves long before he was the Holly King. Gwilym relaxes slowly, but still leans forward instead of back. "If you mean things I need, myself..."

     And for the first time in a long time, years now, it occurs to him: I miss it, too. And he truly does. "I will make it known. Word will get out," he smiles at that. "I expect the prospect of owning land and being able to farm it will attract many. Prospecting is always popular among the adventurous and opportunistic. There's always something to be gained in being bold, oes?" Iowerth nods. I will get the word out.
     There is understanding and sympathy in his gaze, but he understands with a king's heart and mind as much as a brother's. It is no small miracle, he thinks, that he and Tiernan have managed to weather the demands of kingship. I am sorry to hear that, Gwi. But I know... and I understand. He does not linger on that. He knows you. You will not linger on it. If you ever speak it again, it will be on your terms and in your own time. He does not press.
     No, he smiles. "Yes, what do you, yourself, need, my brother? Is there anything the High King, your brother, can offer you?" He wonders blithely, and suddenly he's eighteen all over again, quaffing from a cup of hot buttered rum, wrapped up in robes, and grinning.
     "I shudder to think of the money you've amassed. I'm sure my lost bets, after compounded interest, have accounted for a significant amount of your treasury." Iowerth chuckles, finishing his drink. His cup refills, steaming anew.

     "Boldness." Your brother chuckles, wicked even in reminiscence. "I cannot imagine being bold," he drawls, taking another pull of his coffee. "Oes, send them to me. Those that make it will do well, and those that don't... it is a frontier. They'll suffer a little, but they'll learn. And I'll be there to help how I can."
     Not entirely. Boldness requires no coddling. He looks to you, emeralds glinting in his eyes. I don't think I need anything, brawd. There are wants. But wants can wait. Everything I need ... I have what I need. Oes? I have my men, my kingdom, my army. I am succeeding, bit by bit. What is there anyone can give me which means more to me than success? It tells you about him; it tells you everything about him. There is no self-pity in his gaze, nothing drawn up that he is hiding. He is lonely. But in his loneliness, he is also content.
     The coffee is drained and set aside, and he leans forward to peer at you, rogue's smile wandering across his face. "If there is something I'd ask ... just this," Gwilym tells you, speaking slowly. "The Hunt is mine now, you know that, oes? They dwell in shadow, and they always will. It's their job. But ... their way is as tangled as my own. I would like for them to have something ... something for themselves, of their own. Secretly, of course. They do nothing in public unless they must..."

     Even wistfulness can be wicked. He enjoys a moment of ribald reminiscence, a grin that knows better, and a chuckle that could only be translated into: My god, but that was amazing. Shaking his head, Iowerth quietly enjoys his drink and his memories.
     But the moment passes for business, such is always the case among kings. "I received a cryptic message," he smirks. "But I thought it might be the messenger. It makes sense. They are brother shadows and should follow you. When our father-grandfather was both High King and Holly King, it made sense for them to fall under his office. It is right that they belong with you. As for giving them something of their own? I don't see why not. What do you have in mind? Ask, and it will be done. We owe them that, and our continued gratitude."
     Iowerth waits to hear what you have in mind, for clearly you have something in mind. He leans his head upon his hand, relaxed both in your presence and in the seat of his own office. There is no division now between Iowerth your brother and Iowerth Rhudd Draig, the High King.

     "Someplace hidden in each city, each kingdom. Someplace for themselves, their own. They beg, borrow, barter and steal what they have now, overall - and that is no kind of life. It is too precarious. I think if we put our heads together, we can come up with some excuse." Gwilym chuckles, the sound rolling around in his throat. "Duw! This armour is heavy, but I have worn it so long I have forgotten that it can be removed. My own fault; I stopped to sit down."
     He stands up, beginning to pace with meticulous and lazy tread. "Burnt-out wrecks, possibly, or underground. Whatever can be set aside and put on record as the High King's holdings on paper and thus cannot be officially demolished, restored, rebuilt; but which they will know the ways in and out of and can do with as they see fit. Too poor for anyone to take too much official interest in; and so the years may pile up against and around and over those locations, while the Hunt continues to come and go."
     "I don't envy them their burden. When I die, if I die, it will likely be falling in battle, or from an assassin's lucky knife." Gwilym grins at you, turning and leaning forward against the back of the sofa. "They ... continue on. They do one hell of a job."

     "I am in too good a mood to stomach discussion of your possible impending death." No, the High King simply does not wish to discuss it, even the possibility of it. Certainly not on the heels of the Winter Festival. Inclining his head, he contemplates what you ask in silence. "They do a tremendous job and ...they should have their own places, some security, some comfort. They have it, with my gratitude. When you take the news to them, please convey my gratitude, and that of those I represent."
     Which is to say, everyone.
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig looks to and smiles. "I will begin ... acquiring such spaces. Perhaps I will give that to my brothers, your nephews, to find. They have an ...uncanny sense for such things. I suspect when they are of age, very shortly, you shall have two very able lieutenants, brawd."
     He is Stillness while you are Action. But his Stillness is not passive, not by any means. Again, you are opposite sides of the same coin. He sits, he watches you pace. "I need no excuse." Iowerth grins. "That is the beauty of being High King."

     You recognize the mischief in his eyes when you mention your brothers, his nephews. "Oes," Gwilym drawls, "I think they will. They'll enjoy that - get into a few scrapes, likely nothing they can't get out of. I'll have some of the Hunt follow discreetly just in case, bail them out if they end up needing it. They need risk almost as much as I do, however."
     He is draped forward in his armour, leaning comfortably, companionably, looking to you. "You are beautiful in your own way," Gwilym murmurs, smile tugging relentless. "And I in mine. My way ... is a bloody way."

     Oes... it is... blood as red as the berries of the holly tree, the holly energy you embody. The hunt and howl. I am not the sun to your moon, though I am bright. I am, instead, the stretch of stars above your head. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot see you, find you, dream you if need be.
     Iowerth no longer asks how long you can stay. It is not a question for a king. Stray moments, however and whenever they come, are enjoyed and to be enjoyed fully, completely in that moment. For those times will come and go, never permanent, no more. Your apartments will stand ever at the ready for your return, even though he knows full well that you shall never more occupy them.
     In silence, he smiles to you. It is a quiet smile, an emotional smile. And a smile, like yours, that knows too much for his own, or anyone else's, good.
     "It is good to see you, brother king," Iowerth murmurs. A newly steaming mug of buttered rum appears in his hands. "I am becoming sentimental. You might want to make one of your ...infamous exits..."

     He bows to you, as much as anyone ever can in such armour, and he turns, moving to take up his helmet. "We are not as other people," Gwilym tells you softly, the helm tucked up under his arm. "We never will be. You know my love, brawd. You have it. If you ever need a hand, or the arm attached..."
     He lets it go. You are emotional, and he is as well, it makes his face red as his beard though you do not see it. The helm is replaced, and your brother is again armed and armored, encased in duty, prepared to do battle.
     There is no more talk of hearts; past, present, future are all under the same flag. The shadows open for him, and he is gone, but yet remains. His voice lingers where only you can hear it.
     What I do for myself, is give up myself. Until I am emptied, there is nothing else.

     I know your love. His thought trails upward, slipping from his mind into shadows. And you know mine. How can he miss what is never far from him? You are present with him, his Other, in everything he does.
     Iowerth rises, emptying his cup, and he takes leave of his outer suite, walking silently into his bed chamber. The lights are off and his lover, his husband, is sleeping. The High King stands at the threshold, staring at him a moment. He smiles to see him spread upon the bed, beneath the thick coverlets that lift and lower slightly with his sleeping breaths. How I love you. He keeps that thought, treasured, to himself.
     Softly closing the door behind him, he steps into the darkened room, the chamber lit only by the remainders of the fire burning in the brazier fireplace, embers now only softly glowing. The mantle and cloak are dropped at the foot of the bed, the cloth piling on to add another layer of much-needed warmth. The bed dips with his weight, though he tries to slip within the covers and upon the bed without jostling it too much.
     Iowerth exhales as he moves to surround Tiernan, his own Irish king, with his arms. He smiles, a hand lifting to brush dark hair away from his lover's closed eyes. "I love you," he whispers. And I know your love.

Posted by rowan at January 01, 2008 01:49 PM