Cast off your shackles and dance, o children of Zion. There is no oppressor; there is nothing to fear. Thus were the words after the escape from Pharaoh; and yet, other oppressors have always risen to take Pharaoh's place. The Jews have remained a cautious, wary, vigilant people. And it seems that I am no different. But with less reason.
     He has chosen to leave his suite today, leaving shadows and stone walls behind. It is purely symbolic; shadows are everywhere, and the tallest, thickest walls are in his mind. He is not unaware of it, as he strolls from the palace, down through the streets and archways which he once knew as empty and devoid of life. Where he and his brother lay together, curled in one another's grasp.
     There are bars on my soul. Even if I have evaded all physical capture, what good does it do when one is a thief and imprisoned inside one's self? I am pining, for something - someone - somehow. If I were echoing my brother, I could understand it, but this I cannot lay at his door...
     He has dressed in white and tan again; as if he has put off embracing the shadows to such an extent that he cannot bear their touch. In some cultures, it is white which is the colour of mourning, and it is with melancholy that he strolls, moving slowly, emerald gaze taking absent note of his surroundings. Comfortable slacks that could pass in the modern earthly world, an open-necked white shirt, and an entire lack of jewelry; even the piratical earring has been removed. No gold glints about his person; he is not even wearing a sword. Only the boots he wears hint that he might be more than he appears : princely in their expense, thieving in their silence and charcoal shading. Gwilym Gwyn Garu moves into the main marketplace without a sound.
     He is noticed, of course. A prince is known to have money, and many welcome his spending. His golden flame of hair is visible by many. "Your highness! Buy from me, very fresh!" "Highness, Prince Gwilym, my swords are only the best!" Even in his current mood, it has to bring half a smile to Gwilym's lips. Those from whom he might ordinarily buy or steal with equal ease - they court him.
     "Well, it's nice to be wanted," Gwilym cracks, as he swings over to a fairly famed jeweler's stand, emerald eyes appraising the goods. "But I don't buy jewelry for myself. It's bad luck. Still, what've you got?"

     Ships come in, ships go out. Everywhere one looks, the shoreline is teaming with merchandise, commodities brought from every hill and shore to be traded on this strip. Things from such far away places as his own country find easy markets here. Soon, everyone will be drinking Pom and eating blood oranges by the case. There are as many languages here as there are goods, and yet with enough gestures, with some common tongues, merchant and buyer reach agreements.
     The marketplace is taking on a life of its own.
     He wanders the aisles, the sometimes narrow space between booths and the crowding summer shoppers. Taller than a good many, Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos casts a surveying eye upon all that is before him. The studious, steady gaze lands with equal curiosity and weight upon a booth of spices and a stand of cloth. In his wake, he has left behind his young cousin Romero and the house guard Felix -- they are still several rows down from him, wrapping up his last purchase -- and he walks in contented quiet through the pandemonium of the midday crowd.
     Such an elegant figure he cuts in his chocolates and crimsons and golds. The cotton fabric breathes easily -- far easier than the leather of previous evenings. The cocoa-colored trousers are loose in the legs to allow the breezes to flow. The crimson shirt, also of cotton, is of an even lighter thread than the trousers, seeming almost gauzy in the coastal breeze. There are no ties or buttons to the shirt. It is loosely wrapped fabric only -- another trick of the hot plains and desert. The gold flickers at his hip, the highly-stylized and decorated pommel of a rapier and at the index finger of his right hand -- the family ring.

     "Hm. But emeralds seem so passe for me, don't you think? I don't know." Gwilym is amusing himself - rather successfully at that. He leans towards the display of rings, touching one sensitive fingertip to a stone on top. "Though I suppose cabochon rubies would likely clash with my hair, it is true. Still..."
     The words fade out as if fuzzed by white noise. It is not the emeralds at his fingertips which are moving and reflecting, but his eyes; they have caught a glimpse by the corners, and slowly, slowly he straightens, the stall keeper entirely tuned out.
     The world has gone away. Nothing remains; oh, they are still there, moving and shouting and milling about. But he does not hear them. He does not see them. He sees only you.
     You look familiar. You look - duw. Oh, I am in trouble now.
     His instinct is to bolt. It is the feeling of trouble of having broken into the beekeeper's garden to steal honey (he did that once) and succeeded in not waking the bees, only to have the beekeeper come chasing after him. It is like that, only about a million times worse. You are after him; somehow, he knows this. He feels it as a certainty. Gwilym backs up a step, fetching against the ledge of the jeweler's stall.
     What is the use of running? I recognize you, in some strange way; from my dream, my vision. I can run, but you will follow. You will catch me. I will be just as dead, if that is your intention. What does a thief do, when his hideout is surrounded by guards? There is only one hope. To stay still, and hope that I am unnoticed.
     Hastily, he turns away again, bowing his head as he brusquely waves away the jeweler's queries. "A touch too much sun," Gwilym manages. "I will be fine. I will return later." It is a ruse he could use as a thief. But he is not interested in theft...
     Blasphemy that it is...

     It is the copper color hair that catches his attention, that leads his jasper gaze to the trajectory of that comet. An orange in hand, he turns to follow. His hands peel the husk away from the fruit, leaving scented sheaths behind for the birds to pick. His hands become scented with the fruit of the orange he frees. Prospero runs his hands over the white webbing, plucking the membrane until only the orange is left behind.
     A wedge is pressed by his mouth as he follows the one who called himself Gwilym Gwyn Garu -- the brother of the king. He sucks at the juices then swallows the pulp. Had I known, nothing of that night would have changed. A smile begins to tug at his lips. What is to regret in a night passed thus?
     While his steps are definitely in shadow of the prince's more blazing trail, Prospero does not seem to be in a hurry. His motions are purposeful, carrying him forward, propelling him after you. Two quarters of the orange are eaten, and the citrus scents hover around him in his stroll.
     Are you trying to elude me? Prospero smiles at his thoughts, and his steps quicken. So tall, his stride moves him forward, and the distance between you is shortened.

     Well. That didn't work. From the corner of his eye, he sees you approaching, and his own motion is like a flock of birds startled into flight. The sun is warm on his head and shoulders; it burns where it touches, threatening pale Celtic skin with a burn of another kind. Gwilym twists, sidesteps out of the way of a fat merchant and her retinue, shaking out his hair as he frees it from the single touch of black he wears : a short, small ribbon, holding his hair in a pigtail. The locks are unloosed, and he runs his hand through it as he moves. His progress is slowed by the presence of so many shoppers and merchants. It is like wading through quicksand, and in his blood thunders the certain knowledge of his destiny.
     I will fail. Such visions don't lie, do they? You will catch me - where? I try to measure within my memory from so long ago now, to fit the puzzle pieces - ah, there, by the fountain. Inexorably, the crowd is directing me that way. I cannot get away unless I resort to magic - and that I cannot do. It is a bright and sunlit day; the shadows into which I could fit are nowhere to be found in this square. I could change myself into a raven and fly, but then, you would hunt me all the more; no, best to make my end as painless as I can.
     I cannot accept more pain right now, anyway...
     Gwilym twists, his hand opening, releasing the ribbon on the breeze. It floats freely, as ephemeral as any shadow; a dark moth in the bright summer sun. Perhaps it will be caught, or it will be found. And the crowd is encouraging him in the direction of the great marble fountain with its cascades of water. It is like being caught in a whirlpool. He can see where he will end up, but cannot break free. As can you see. The marble ledge grows ever closer until he is there. He plants both palms on the cool ledge, leaning forward with eyes closed, as if looking down into the water.
     Let it end quickly, whatever is happening. My heart beats so quickly, and my stomach tightens, as if I would fight or fuck. I can feel my thighs tense in back, and I am squirming in my skin. Who are you? What is it you will do? I am lost.
     Lost.

     "Gwilym Gwyn Garu..."
     The voice appears suddenly. If you open your eyes you will see him standing in front of you, his head inclined. His voice, accented in that strange fashion, with the resined warmth that may stir your memories, is steady, quiet. It bears the confidence in its resonance that may be seen in his countenance.
     The coolness of the oranges, the water they contain in their sweetness, offer true relief from the summer heat -- another trick learned in a hot country. Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos finishes it and bends, washing the sticky juice from his hands in the cool water of the fountain. His eyes cut the distance between you into nothing. The gold-cinnamon color of them holds you, holds familiarity. He knows you.
     "Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos," he murmurs after a moment, a cirrus cloud eyebrow lifting slightly. There is a moment of humor. "We ... met the other night. In the tavern by the sea..." he voice leads and then he pauses a moment to allow you to catch up.
     You were drunk, but he had thought the evening more memorable than that...
     His lips -- such a mouth -- curl in the start of a humored smile. "Did you receive your clothing in good shape? Romero," the R trills, creating a lilt in the even tone of his voice. "...had them delivered to the palace..."

     You know my name already. How? Ah, the downside of being a prince. I am too well known. What am I to do? But there is nothing to be done for it.
     He will have to face the music. Slowly, he straightens, slowly, he turns to face you. He is racking his brain for any memory and coming up entirely dry - entirely blank. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me," Gwilym says slowly, lifting his face to look at you. He sinks to rest on the edge of the fountain. There is something in the way you look at him which has his stomach tying itself into knots. "But it is a pleasure, nonetheless, to meet you, sir. Or should I say, senor?"
     You are peered at, and colour comes into his face unbidden. No, he does not remember. But it does not stop him from reacting to you, unconscious though he may be of that night. And something is different; for you, at least. That generosity is not there, today, with the sun overhead. There is that faint threading of bleak despair, which is not because of you but there all the same. It exists independently of the social graces he displays, of the quirk of a smile, the charm which he summons as his last defense, his only shield.
     "I must have been more than just drunk to forget you. I hope that you will pardon my loss of memory. Sometimes life can be strange, oes? I was wrestling with a minor family problem." The emerald eyes focus on you, and slowly, he rises again. His mind is working - poorly, but working. How did he lose his clothes? Gambling? An accident? Something else? Involuntarily, his gaze moves along you, assessing the likelihood of various 'something elses'.
     "The clothes did arrive, although I was not aware who had delivered them. They were put in my drawers, and, well - one jumps to conclusions." His voice rolls smoothly, and he struggles within himself not to let the defensiveness show. He is unable to close himself up as much as ordinarily he would; he is weak beneath your gaze, those knowing eyes. And it is on his tongue to ask you outright : what happened; but that, he cannot do.
     "You will forgive me, I hope," Gwilym answers you lightly, airily, "any trespasses I might have committed? If I owe you aught, I would make reparations."

     He stands in the center of the hurly-burly square, standing at the fountain like at the center of a storm. But he, the central figure, bears a contented peace. The jasper color of them, that blend of gold and cinnamon, rest their stead-fastness on you without so much as a moment of distraction from the surrounding marketplace. "Prospero," he insists quietly, waving off with the tone of his voice any notion of calling him senor.
     "It was no trouble, and you do not need to seek forgiveness. You ... had been celebrating," the measured voice continues, and there is something of a slight smile. As well, he studies you. You did not seem that drunk, to have forgotten everything. Is this true forgetfulness or are you merely trying to distance yourself from some invisible sin?
     "I would be happy to fill you in on the evening's excitement. Shall we go for a coffee?" Prospero offers. He pivots, gesturing to the boardwalk that runs along the coastline, where marketplace and shops begin to thin out and taverns, guest houses, bars, and cafes begin to take over.
     "I am sure you are curious, si, as to how I ended up with your clothing..."

     There is no sign of shame evinced in those emerald eyes. He just - does not remember. And that has him worried, as well; it is not usual for him to drink so much. So much for him to forget entirely - not since he was young and stupid. All right, younger and stupider. "Prospero, then," Gwilym agrees.
     You are looking at me as if you know me. Why am I so quick to agree with you? What do you know? What hold is it that you have over me? I feel it, I sense it, and yet, I don't understand at all.
     It troubles me...
     "Celebrating." Gwilym mock-groans at that. "My brother's marriage, no doubt. Well, I hope you'll forgive me, then, for my forgetfulness and for any sins I may have committed against the name of hospitality. Certainly, coffee seems a very civilized notion. Anywhere you have in mind?"
     His expression is more alert than the casual voice belies, though he glances to the boardwalk more than to you. What are you up to? Are you going to kill him? What does this mean? Damned visions, giving only a hint of the future and nothing more! How can something this small, this insignificant be pivotal enough to warrant a vision? But he is going with you. More than anything, his curiosity will not let him alone. What happened that night?

     He does not sense your dread, only your uncertainty. But he treats your uncertainty no differently, certainly does not spare it extra consideration. Prospero turns, leading the way from the fountain and its radius of shoppers to the cobbled marble road that leads from the markets to the boardwalk.
     There are influences of the modern world upon this dreamscape. There are elements here of London's South Waterfront and, in particular, Venice. Several cafes that could just as easily reside in those two very real, very earth cities exist in this very unreal, fantastical one. The shops, too, have a decidedly modern air amid so much Greco-Romano-Byzantinian inspiration.
     Any Italian filmmaker would be proud of the surrealism...
     His stride is unhurried. If he is an assassin, he is the most relaxed assassin you've ever seen. He keeps ahead of you, leading you to the first cafe, The Potted Fig. He does not lead you inside the cafe, where you might expect an ambush, but rather heads toward one of the several empty tables outside. Most of the city's inhabitants are at work or at the market yet -- there are few on a hot day looking to have a hot drink. But that does not matter to him.
     Prospero gestures for you to take a seat, even as he pulls one out for himself. "Your brother. You spoke of him a little," he notes. "Mostly you talked of winning and losing. And you did lose one hand of cards," he quietly notes. Amusement warms in his eyes as he takes a seat. "I did not understand you were a fellow prince. Think of all the politics we missed," his voice dead-pans on that. He didn't miss it in the slightest, though finds humor in it all the same.
     His thick hair has a natural wave to it. Not quite complete curls that spiral but in half spirals, semi-circular waves that can only be tamed by keeping his hair fairly short. Dark chocolate brown, it is swept away from his eyes, not sparing you from that tiger's eye stare. The look is always direct, the distance crossed in every glance, and he holds you in his attention when he speaks, not looking to anything but you.

     You're a prince? The look you get is curious and confused. No, really? Well, it makes sense, he supposes - as much as anything else in this increasingly surreal experience. When he is asleep, where does he go? Discreetly as he settles into his seat and back, he pinches himself. It hurts, but does nothing to disrupt the surroundings.
     "My brother... what hasn't been said about him." Gwilym grins a little, one hand resting on the table. "To be quite honest, I almost entirely have managed to avoid politics. I do not spend very much time in this world." Will you know what that means? Do you recognize the implications? He watches you carefully, to see if you do or you do not. "Besides, if I spend too much time here, my mother may start wanting me to get married, and I am - to be blunt - in no rush."
     Why does my stomach tighten when I comment on being in no rush to get married, when I look at you? What did I do with you - how much do you know? If you are not here to kill me...
     He is watching you. Taking you in. He is not immune to your appearance, no, nor to that calm you have, nor yet even to the way you are looking at him. He can feel his face warm slightly, and hopes only it is kept off his skin. "Ah, losing a hand of cards." To that, Gwilym waves dismissively. "What stakes? If I owe you, I'd be happy to repay. Or," a faint grin, "gamble again - double or nothing, whatever stakes you like." Why do you make me want to gamble? I usually do not. Gambling is a money-maker, for me. I do not risk losing. And yet - to you - I lost. How much?

     There is laughter. It is quiet, it is brief, it is glorious. "You did not lose much money," he eases out one of the greatest understatements and closeted euphemisms of the year. Leaning back in the seat, he continues to study you. You really do not remember. "My cousin Romero, the virgin, was there, my man-at-arms, Felix. But they left us to our game. Felix has no stomach for losing money. But you paid me..." his hands gesture in a slight wave. You do not owe me anything.
     "I am always happy to gamble," comes the intonation of that voice. It is quiet in its expression, deep in sound, and unhurried in its pacing. "Your brother has married. Surely that alone takes the pressure off. I have two older brothers. It is amazing what freedom a second or third son may have, if he is clever enough to go for liberty."
     Should I tell you, or no. For a few moments, Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos says nothing. He merely looks at you, glances to the interior of the cafe, and then back to you as the waitress appears. "Two cremas, please." A milky coffee, something good for the middle of the day. The waitress smiles, returning to the interior of the cafe to ready the drinks.
     So easily he commands things, so nonchalant in his officiating. "Our games did not end there, of course," he murmurs, his lips beginning to curl. "You came to my chamber. It is a pity you do not remember," he peers at you out of humored sympathy. "It was a very enjoyable evening, Gwilym. Right until morning."
     And when he woke, you were gone, but your clothes remained, left behind.

     You unravel your tale, bit by bit. It is a verbal striptease, giving hints of what has been done, but has not yet been revealed. His eyebrows draw up a trifle, and he sprawls back, one hand going through his hair. "Ah, my brother's marriage affects me only on a personal level," he answers you easily. "Our situation is ... a trifle unique." You must be new, or you'd know.
     "My mother is married to two men," Gwilym explains, not at all impatient or perturbed. If you will be around the High King's court at all, best you learn this now. "One is my father, the Oak King, King of the Summer Country, in whose borders Avalon is contained. The other is my brother's father - my grandfather - Davydd, once High King. I believe he retains his title as Holly King, but I don't know. I should ask Iowerth." Iowerth, his brother. The High King.
     "My mother," Gwilym continues, lightly, unaffected by all this, "is the White Lady - Fiona, Queen of the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree. I just call her mum, the rest takes too long to get my mouth around." Three kingdoms. Two kings. One queen. Two sons, who are, moreover, twins, but with the two fathers. His home life is complicated.
     He lets you place the order, watching you with that lingering curiosity. And then you speak again, so casually, so quietly. There is the flicker of uncertainty and suspicion in his eyes. Do you mean - ? But surely you don't mean that. What do you mean? Or did we -
     "I ... am glad that it was an enjoyable evening," Gwilym says slowly, cheeks burning scarlet despite his own efforts. "I am not surprised, then, that you were curious as to my lack of recollection. I can only say that I must have had some potent draught indeed. I ..." Am not sure how to continue. I think I know what you mean, considering how I could barely sit for two days. But - duw, this is awkward...
     "I am not sure what to say," Gwilym murmurs to you, suddenly, candidly. He leans forward a little, unconscious of his expression. "But I paid you... ?"

     "It sounds... very royal," he decides. In all the connotations that could be described: complicated, incestuous, dramatic. He is engaged in what you say -- he is so focused both on what you say and how you say it . His engagement is as much a study of your complexion, how you sit. There is measuring, and yes remembering, that takes place in his eyes.
     Prospero smiles. "You paid me for the hand of cards you lost," he clarifies. Sitting forward, he folds his hands upon the table, those gold eyes on you again. The look comes with warmth of its own, a touch of its own. "There was no such... monetary agreement on the sofa ... or the bed. You bought the first bottle of brandy. I provided the second, the Pom. Perhaps it was that last draught that proved to be the fateful, forgetful lot."
     The cremas come and Prospero sits back to receive his own. They are in short, wide mugs. In London or Venice they might be referred to as lattes. "Your brother and you have different fathers, the same mother," he nods as he makes a mental note of it, sipping at his crema. "I fear my brothers and I share the same of both. Though, strangely, they do seem more like my father's brother than he." He grins suddenly, as if sharing something in common with you. "It was... most enjoyable. Do you wish to know more?" A cirrus cloud eyebrow lifts slightly. "I will, of course, be only happy to elaborate." Sipping at the coffee, Prospero smiles slightly.

     "It is, I suppose, though it doesn't seem so royal when mum and da are busy having a pillow fight." Ah, there goes the mystique of the royal family, right out the window. Gwilym rolls his eyes. That's his parents, for you. And then he is diverted. By you.
     Gwilym sits there, blinking at you, color rising by slow, heated degrees into his cheeks. His mouth is slightly agape. What is is about you that you so effortlessly slice through his usual social constructs? Is it just timing? He stares at you as if instead of saying what you did, you just announced that for your next trick, you were about to stand and drop trou and moon the cafe and passers-by, oh, and you'd tattooed the name of a prominent whore on your left ass cheek. Congratulations. You broke him.
     Finally, after the coffee is set down, after you pick up your cup and set it down again, he manages to come up with some grasp of language again. "I, uh. I certainly wish I could remember that. I - suspect increasingly that this is not a discussion which we should pursue in a public place, don't you agree?" He is harried, now. He drags his hand through his hair, setting red-gold flickers and wisps floating before they fall askew. "Shall we go somewhere else?" Please?

     Sipping at his coffee, Prospero nods his assent. He sets the cup down and takes out coins, won from your own pocket, to pay for the drinks and a healthy gratuity. Leaving the coins on the table, he rises. "I shall leave the location up to your choosing," he speaks in deference. You are the host prince, after all. And, besides, he cannot imagine you being so willing, being as you are so sober, as to follow him to his room again, not remembering him from before.
     You are cavalier... not stupid...
     Prospero gestures for you to lead the way. "After you, Gwilym," he murmurs.

     "By all means." His mind is racing, turning over possibilities. Where can he take you? Not to his own place (such as it is). Not to a tavern, nor yet (duw) a brothel. There is only one location which gives him both enough of an edge and is yet not politically unsound, and still reachable.
     He rises to his feet, swiping a hand underneath his hair where it falls against his collar. Only one place. A place, surprisingly, he has used less than he might have. "We can go to my chambers in the palace," Gwilym suggests, already pointing himself in that direction. "We can ... speak ... without interruption, there."

     He has a headache, now. The sort of headache that no amount of sleep, aspirin or alcohol alone can banish. It is the headache of How badly did I screw up this time combined with How many people know and What am I going to have to do to keep da and papa from finding out - especially papa. As if he didn't already have headaches about his papa. He leads the way with a lanky, long-legged pace, heading back towards the palace.
     It's only too bad he's a prince and recognized widely not only as a prince, but for being willing to toss coins into hats and usually, for his charming congeniality. Immediately upon seeing him, a rag-tag group of minstrels lets out a cheer and falls into pace behind him - and by connection, you. Gwilym does not at first, notice this; it's only when he glances behind you that he notices the brightly coloured motley of the group, in stark contrast to you and him. You get a quick glance, and he turns to face them, walking backwards. "Ah, greetings, friends," he begins. There's a cheer in response; as he opens his mouth to try and dismiss them, the minstrel group swings into action. The music is surprisingly loud (magically amplified, perhaps). It also is a well-known air. The strains of I'm A Rover And Seldom Sober fill the marketplace.
     Gwilym opens and closes his mouth several times, like a goldfish, coming to a halt. "Listen," he tries again without luck. You get another look; the prince is exasperated. He turns to the musicians again, waving a hand. "Hey!"
     His wave is greeted with a flourish of instruments, and with a groan, Gwilym drags both hands back through his hair. He turns again, starting for the palace. They won't follow him onto the imperial grounds, after all. Right? Surely not. He picks up his pace. Unfortunately, so do the minstrels.
     Attracted by the minstrels, a number of the younger children around the market square have been attracted - most of them raggle-taggle, ones not in the keeping of nurses and nannies or their parents or helping in shops. They skip after the minstrels cheerfully, attracted by the noise and the commotion and all the gay colours. A few stray dogs take up the heel end of the procession, barking happily as they chase after. By the time the archway is reached, there's easily a couple dozen grown-ups, children and animals.
     The shadow prince looks to you again for a moment, then turns in the archway to face the happy parade. He lifts a hand, index finger upraised, and he opens his mouth to speak; which is right when the wind instruments' section finishes with a flourishing blare of trumpets. Gwilym stands there for a moment, mouth still slightly open, finger upraised; then, very slowly, very carefully, he turns away and grabs your arm. "Come on," he mutters through clenched teeth as he leads you away and into the palace proper, "before someone decides to drop a glass slipper in front of me on top of everything else."

     His pace had fallen into rhythm with your own, matching your stride with a fencer's habit for close watch and mimicry, by the time the minstrels spotted you, and then as they gave chase he slowly began to smile. As your pace quickened, and likewise his, and likewise theirs as well, the smile became a grin.
     By the time the dogs joined in, Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos was laughing. He even clapped to the rhythm and meter of the music as you and he and the band, children and animals approached the palace. Everywhere you go, there seems to be a celebration, he thinks as he looks at you, laughter edged smile perched upon that mouth, amusement in those eyes.
     Prospero gracefully glides out of the way of dancing children and jumping dogs, chuckling again as you grab his arm. He nods, only a glance given back to the fiesta, as you and he all but jog into the basilica proper.
     "Are you ever able to sneak away, or do you have such bands following you wherever you go," Prospero muses, his stride slowing in the halls -- one doesn't run indoors -- his jasper gaze still bright with his own amusement, even at your own expense.
     His gaze is distracted by his first view, his first visit within the basilica. Eyebrows lift slightly in his consideration, as if some fine wine has just passed his lips and settled on his tongue. "Your brother has a magnificent court. The palacio," he notes, his voice that slow ease you -- ah, that is right, you do not recall. His steps, as his words, are unhurried. There is a natural grace in his movements and in his demeanor. "Amazing. I will have to inquire on what favor a man must have to acquire a place in this court."

     "You would be surprised how well that I can sneak when I feel the urge." Gwilym mutters the words to you, his hand again going back over his hair as he, too, slows his pace to follow the line of the marble halls and stairways. "But when I am being sociable..." He shrugs a little. "I have learned how to seem approachable and pleasant, I suppose. With station comes certain graces and responsibilities, oes?"
     The way is long, but not impassible. Not when you are with him. He leads the way in circular fashion, up along the rotunda and further beyond, to the royal wing that he shares with his kingly brother and his brother's lover (perhaps). The guards get a brief look - good, they are on duty, just in case. And he pushes open the doors to his chambers. "Please, after you."
     Inside, the chambers are spacious, several connected rooms; large, open, and with signs of their decor having been added to by the thief prince. Rich brocades and velvets cover every furnished surface, spilling over glowing woods and leather surfaced sofas. "It isn't hard to get a place in court," Gwilym tells you, sounding mildly amused. "My brother promotes on merit more than favours. Which beggars the question as to why he keeps me around, but I suppose nepotism has its perks as well, oes? Can I get you anything, now we're here?"

     Merit. The idea seems to intrigue him. It is not off-putting, such an idea, merely unusual. At least in the courts he has experienced. But he does not elaborate. "Nepotism is the perk. It is why there are families, si? So one can help the others out. And... red wine, if it is not too much of an imposition." He cannot imagine it would be. What prince is without red wine?
     Prospero glances around your chamber, all in the same motion as his body pivoting toward you. His gaze fixes on you again, and with a fencer's focus he gives you the whole of his attention. "I understand the... special concerns of a prince," his voice smoothes its way to you, even as he moves toward one of the leather sofas. "I did not mean to cause you concern by speaking so freely."
     Resting upon the sofa, his arms stretching out to lie upon the back of the leather cushions, Prospero once again gives you the full-force of his attention. His eyes know you, have experienced you, and they hold you in golden memory as he looks at you. "I was surprised to have found you so easily in such a multitude."
     A slight smile toys with his lips as he allows his gaze to wander far more freely. "In my country, there is no ... special attachment to who a man may spend time with, carnal or otherwise."

     "Red wine," Gwilym agrees, moving to a cabinet. Wine is pulled from its contents - from depths of shadow. Wine cellars are, after all, kept in the dark, aren't they? In shadow. Two goblets are brought down; these are fairy-made, and are his own. "No imposition at all. I ... have ... access to some very fine wines indeed. Hopefully you'll like this one."
     It is a red wine; it is Spanish, in fact. Why not? It seems appropriate, to him. He works it open with nimble hands, glancing over at you; and his colour rises as you speak, eyes lowering. "I do not believe that there will be any ... prejudice given to that, here. It would not be allowed."
     Ah, there the wine goes - cork freed, dark liquid gurgles from glass bottle to glass goblet. He brings the filled cups over, one held out to you where you now lie, position given to casualness, to hide the tension in his belly. "However, I have never ... advertised. My grandfather is ... of a different place and era. He would - not understand." His lips twitch wryly. Understatement, that.

     A hand comes out to accept the wine. He lifts it slightly to you, then takes a sip of it. There is recognition in his eyes, and he is impressed by your offering. As you continue to speak, Prospero inclines his head in comprehension. "I have no intention on divulging such information. Any information, for that matter," he adds quietly. "What I enjoy... I keep to myself. I should perhaps look to correct such avarice," the resonant tone of his voice takes on a kind of blithe timbre. "But I find I do not have stomach to change."
     His mouth slowly spreads as he lifts his glass once more to sip at the wine, his gold-cinnamon eyes on you as he does. Wine on the tongue, he studies you, considers you again, his head tilting slightly. "I suppose amnesia has its benefits." Lips form a full-fleshed smirk.
     For what else could it be? Alcohol-induced amnesia.
     "Apart from your grandfather, who should I avoid?" A cirrus cloud eyebrow lifts slightly again, hovering above the golden plains of his face, his amber-brown eyes shimmering both in humor and in desire. The conversation is as much a study as anything else. It allows him to mark your body language, your comfort level, to comprehend that which you do not say, will not speak.
     Prospero pauses to breathe in the flavors of the wine, detecting its nose, becoming familiar with it. All of this before he tastes it again. So, too, his gaze upon you -- it breathes you in, it sniffs you out, it flavors him with you before he tastes you again.

     "I have never been able to change what I am," Gwilym assents quietly. He settles on the arm of the couch, looking at you with head cocked at a slight angle. He is wary. Nervous. Excited all the same, despite his best intentions. "I just do not tell him what I do. He does not ask, as a rule. Most of the time, I can keep it from him."
     He is watching you. Searching you with emerald eyes, trying to learn you, understand you - there is so much he does not comprehend. The glass is lifted to his lips, and he closes his eyes as he sips, a low sigh curling from him before he looks again to you, lowering the goblet. "I have to admit that this is a new one on me. I have ... never drank so much as to forget ... that - kind of thing."
     Duw ... I sound like a blushing virgin. I AM blushing. What the devil have you done to me... where has my composure gone? It lies scattered in the grass, waiting for patient beasts to forage and snap it all up.
     Abruptly, he shifts from the arm of the sofa to sit next to you, still looking at you. "I don't know what to say," Gwilym admits quietly. "I ... do feel as if I should know you. For more reasons than just one. Tell me, though. Tell me about yourself. If you did already, I apologize. I - just do not remember."
     Torn as he is, between speech and action; he is almost shy, wanting and not wanting to want. His hair is still mussed from the trip here, with minstrel-induced exasperation. His composure is decidedly askew.

     The amber resin of his eyes sparks with something of fire as the color of your complexion darkens. It is the flint-stone upon which the spark is struck. When you acquiesce so subtly, he is there with his unwavering gaze, his steadiness, his confidence. The dynamic moves effortlessly between you as if you had been doing this for years.
     "I am Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos," he repeats in quiet measures, his gaze wandering from yours to your hands, to the procession of your blush, and back to your eyes. "I am the third son of the King of Andalucia." He pauses, his mouth quirking slightly. "This is more than I told you the other night. We did not talk much."
     He finishes the wine in another swallow, and he sets the glass aside, his fingers lacing against his stomach as he relaxes back against the leather. "My kingdom is to the far west, it is a coastal country, and looks not unlike this island, though it is not an island. What else would you like to know, Gwilym?" His voice softens to a hush upon your name, his head inclining as he studies you once more.
     Prospero sits forward, half-turning in his seat to face you. The fringes of his aura brushes along your own. "We talked of your family somewhat. I know you are the brother to the High King. You like to gamble," he grins, "... and we both like dangerous games."

     There are such bands of tension in his belly; deep in his gut, where it cannot be eased. He listens to you with the slightest distraction - only it is not so slight. It is massive. Immense. "Whatever you would care to share," he answers you automatically, to your question. Gwilym's eyes lift, lock upon your own.
     There is much he is not saying. The thoughts, the impressions, the impulses. I want you to kiss me. Why can I not make the move? But I am rooted in place at the moment. I have seduced men and women both; scores. You might flee if you knew how many. I could put Casanova to shame. I should be immune to you. But I am not. Duw - I am not.
     He doesn't quite jump as you come so close - as if you are touching, the ghost of a touch. But he goes still at it, as still as at his name on your mouth. Green flickers from emerald to forest as you mention danger. "I gamble," Gwilym agrees quietly. "With anything and everything I own. Even my life. Even my soul, if you are so kind as to believe that I have one."
     Why am I saying such things to you? Even my own brother - he knows because he has seen. But I do not talk about it. Why do I tell you? I am no wounded bird, surely not that. And yet...
     And yet, I find myself having such cravings for you. As if you were my meat and drink. What does this mean? I do not know you, and yet I do.
     He leans forward towards you; the slightest stirring breeze that then halts. Lips part as if for speech, his eyes sliding from your face to where your shirt opens at the throat. Gwilym smiles halfway, letting his head drop, looking down at his glass in one hand, at his own knee. "I do not know how much there is left of me. But if you want to know something, I will tell you."

     There is motion. You sense it before you see it. And then, as you look into your glass, the landscape to the background changes. His hand takes the glass of wine from your grasp, gently and with the deftness of a thief, though he is certainly not a thief, and in the same motion his body is bending and his mouth is finding yours. It arrives there with none of the minstrel fanfare of the marketplace, and none of the warning of prophetic visions.
     There is the taste of red wine and the flavor of cinnamon. As he becomes your sky and the steady earth you can cling to, his mouth parts your own, moving it to spread beneath him like wax melting in the sun. His hand lifts, skimming the side of your cheek as he pulls his mouth from yours, tugging your lips with savoring suckles.
     His eyes have been open, watching like lurid spectators. "You should not have to wonder, not remembering," Prospero murmurs, straightening. His fingers stroke at the skin of your lips, pressing the blushed flesh. "We burned on the sofa, against the bedroom door, and finally in my rented bed," he whispers, his mouth brushing against yours, parting it for a sudden, savoring kiss then murmuring more. Open mouthed, another kiss teased, he breathes there: "Show me your bedroom," he quietly suggests. But it is a suggestion that is more command than anything. "And I will show you what I want to know, and show you who I am."
     Prospero straightens again, his thumb moving over your lips, slipping between them only for a moment before drifting away.

     The kiss is unexpected, despite everything. So caught up in his own speculations, his own hesitations, he never saw it coming. His mouth parts for yours; surprised at first, and then hungrily. He kisses you back, tongue diving for yours before drawing back, lips reddened and softened by the tug of your mouth.
     His hand reaches for yours, fingers tangling. They withdraw again, but slowly; only slowly, as shadows receding before the advancing sun. His other hand has found your shirted chest, as if indecision rules the roost; as if he has not decided yet whether to push you away or to cling to you. But he looks at you with still puckered lips, mouth just slightly open, as if to prolong the taste of you in his mouth. There is nothing of hiding bars and gates in front of his eyes.
     "You are so strange," Gwilym whispers the words, as if someone might overhear. "I have not known anyone like you before." His eyes close, breath escaping him as she almost kiss him but withhold that pleasure. His lashes sweep down with grace rather than artistry, and it is motivation; he slowly moves to push to his feet.
     I feel clumsy and as shy as a schoolboy with a crush. As if I had attended some ridiculously expensive prep school like mum, and you were Head Boy, and I the younger - yearning in your direction, sitting where you have sat, listening to you speak. Your punishments could crush me then, but I would still cling to my ideal. Your slightest words of praise could stir warmth in my belly, furtive fantasy making my fingers linger where they should not.
     The apple didn't fall too bloody far from the tree, did it...
     He closes his lips around your thumb, suckling before you pull back, before he rises to his feet and pulls away. "I want to know," Gwilym admits, shoulders dropping as he looks at you. He turns; head first, then shoulders, then hips, feet the last to go. He is fluid in his grace. There is nothing clumsy to his movements, even in moments of unstudied practice. He moves to the door of his bedroom, lingering there with a hand against the wood. And he looks to you; then swings the doors open wide.

     Standing at the door, in the threshold to your bedroom, he rolls you against the door frame, an arm around your waist. The fullness of his mouth gives itself to you as much as it spreads you beneath him. Your bottom lip is suckled, tugged with his teeth and chewed as he kisses you again. "You will know me," he whispers with you, though no one can hear. But it is a secret shared, echoed in the gold-cinnamon of his eyes.
     You are pressed to the threshold as surely as a corner. "I am demanding," he murmurs. "You may not remember, but it will come back to you, Gwilym." There is a slight smile as he looks at you, holding you captured. "Go to your bed. I want to watch you undress for me. And this time... you will be able to keep your clothes in the morning."
     Prospero leans back, giving you enough space to move. His arm sets you free, if reluctantly. He follows you, untying the fabric that wraps around his torso. It falls slack, revealing the strong and lean musculature beneath it. His physique is that of a sword fighter, lean as a rapier, strong as a saber.
     "When we were first together," he continues toward the bed, his words as measured as his steps, "...you opened so beautifully beneath me. Like a flag unfurling. We were honest, despite the dangerous nature of Truth. And you spread beneath me for hours, until your hair was so wet it began to curl."
     Prospero stands at the bedside, letting the cloth of his shirt drape to the floor. "Honesty is terrifying," he notes, "...but there is no greater thrill than facing one's greatest fear..."

     So few words shared, and yet, a wealth of meaning in them. Gwilym moans softly as your arm comes around his waist. It is alarming and exhilarating. He has never surrendered himself; never allowed himself to be open. Every step as tentative as testing the ledge of a roof before allowing his weight to settle; never allowing his weight to settle for long. And here, with you, that has changed.
     There is no pretense - no artifice. He looks at you, without thought of how he will trick you, steal you, seduce you. Instead of being the master thief, the young prince, the living shadow, he is just a boy, a young man, with a young man's eyes meeting yours. His breath escapes in a rush as you press him back - but he does not argue. Does not struggle, or evade, or counter with wit or charm.
     You are the prince here, more than I. Two princes, perhaps, but it is I who look up to you, who look for your hands' guidance. Longing to feel them in caress or stinging punishment, hoping that even correction will lead to attention. I want you. I want you so badly, I taste in in my throat as burning embers, hissing and fizzing and filling my mouth with smoke. It leaks between my teeth, and my hands move of their own accord. I am in no control, here.
     His hands find their way to your shoulders, and he leans against you as you capture him. He does not try to pull away; reveling in captivity, wanting nothing but to be caught again, even as you set him free. Slowly, he moves to his bed, cheeks burnished to fire as his fingers move lightly over clasps and buttons of his shirt, letting it hang open as he turns towards you, facing away from the bed.
     "Honesty," Gwilym says it as if tasting the word. "I do not think I have ever been honest. I did not think that I still knew how." And yet, you inspire it in me, it seems. How strange...
     He lets you see him, the shirt hanging loose, boots pulled off and tossed to under the bed to moulder there forever, if fate wills it so. He stands, head slightly bowed and emerald eyes looking up at you through mussed hair that hangs forward. "I want you to like me." He folds his arms back, shoulders dropped so that the dragging cloth can fall clear. It slides and tumbles, gradually and then quickly, until it crumples to the floor.
     He pays it no attention. One hand moves against himself, fingers sliding up as he looks at you with a furtive shyness in those bright emeralds, colour risen to paint his face with emotion and desire. So this is what it is like. I have ruined young men, though I do not say so aloud. Led them from the pursuit of women to feel me in them, letting them surrender with sobs and cries, as if I were making them my woman. Even as they shuddered in orgasm, though, I was rising again, or sliding free to find other meat. Other games. And now, you could ruin me as easily as I ruined any of them. I suppose it serves me right.
     Gwilym acknowledges it to himself, fingers moving to the clasp of his trousers. It is easily undone, whether thief or no. "You are my greatest fear," he tells you quietly, bluntly, fingers shifting to squirm, to roll cloth slowly down over his hips. "I had premonition of your coming. I did not know what it meant. And my greatest fear seems also my greatest desire."

Posted by rowan at February 14, 2007 12:17 PM