It's good to be the prince. None of the responsibilities of being king, all the leisure, and as for the pay cheque - well. Gwilym is smiling to himself in obvious self-satisfaction as he slips into the front entry of one of the premier dining spots in his brother's kingdom. He is pocketing a sizable pouch of coin and jewels; another group of card sharks in dismay.
     "Soon they will know who I am, and ah, well; I won't be able to fleece them anymore." He grins to himself, moving into view so that the well-dressed (scantily dressed) hostess (her wings are bat-like and she has mild stripes on her skin to match her dress) can see him and show him to a table.
     The place is spacious and open, and there is the public area for anyone with the coin to afford it, and one side which is for the highest-paying clientele; a waterfall has been set up in a basin below the seating area, magic used to hush the roar of the water while the mist rises up to those who dine there. Nymphs and fairy men are half-hidden in the greenery at the sides of the waterfall and on the rocks, playing flutes and harps and lutes. He points to it, nods to himself, grins. Eye candy with the meal. Excellent.
     "Time for another night on the town," Gwilym tells the hostess cheerily, tipping her a golden coin. She purrs, batting dark lashes at him while giving him a coquettish look from her topaz eyes; he in turn pats her on the rump as he slides into a seat. "Bring me a menu, hm? Oh, and - bring me some dinner company, would you? I'd kill for some decent conversation."
     She is entirely charmed; silent, but charmed. Why speak when telepathy works as well? She saunters off to relay the prince's command to the maitre d', and in the interim, Gwilym is making himself entirely too much at home. "Haven't seen this level of engineering since London," he muses to himself in the absence of the potential company. "I wonder if it's Tiernan's doing..."

     "I do not see why you have to accompany me everywhere," Romero's voice whispers to his nemesis and guard, Felix, as he meanders through the exclusive clientele. Felix is far more out of place than the finely appointed Romero de los Santos
     "Because your cousin asked..."
     "My cousin is not so cruel as that... here... you may be my guard, but I am your commander, and I command you take this money and... just go somewhere alright? I want to have a good time and I can't with you watching like a buzzard on the carcass of a hare..."
     Felix snorts, chortling at the very idea of Romero having any sort of a good time, at least any that he himself could imagine. "I hate to take your money, amigo, but... very well... I will have mercy on you. At the cost of five silver."
     Romero scowls at the extortion but, unfortunately, he is also all too willing to pay. He shoves coins into Felix's sweaty palms and makes a wave at him. "Go, go, have a good time, you criminal."
     "I would say the same for you, amigo, but..." And Felix laughs. We all know how this is going to end.
     Romero sighs with relief as Felix goes, and he brushes a hand over his fine clothes as if to pick the lint of Felix's presence free from the nice velvets. He is clothed in arabesque blues, leggings of velvet and a fine cream shirt of silk. Around his neck is a thin scarf of blue velvet. He moves past the waterfalls and makes his way through the crowd, watching those who have gathered here...
     A familiar voice grabs his attention, and then how could one miss the carnival of energy that is Gwilym Gwyn Garu. Smiling, Romero de los Santos picks up the pace. "Prince Gwilym," he says. He bows his head a little as he comes to your table. "I did not expect to find you here. How foolish of me! I should have expected you would be at the finest dining house in the kingdom. May I join you?"
     Around you, he cannot help but go roseate.

     Company? Gwilym looks up, then grins. "Prince, shmince. Come and have a seat. I am planning on getting very drunk tonight, for no other reason than because I can. Of course you may join me. Family of my family is still family, oes?"
     He was aware of you, of course, even if he is polite enough to lie. Then again, lying comes easy. And politeness itself is a lie with him; he is nothing like polite under the skin. Thieves never are. But you made yourself known from your first whispered argument with your guardian, and even before; what thief cannot fail to notice the brightly jeweled pigeon whose value is highlighted by the presence of a stern defender?
     One hand comes out, pats at the seat next to his, and that wild, wide and entirely too knowing grin makes itself known for a brief flash. Gwilym settles back, waving the hostess forward. "Wine menu? Excellent," he purrs. "I am, as you can see, being joined tonight. You need provide no other companion; but will you have the chef send out some of his finest little tidbits? I am sure my friend here is dying to try them as much as I."
     He smiles, and the hostess blushes faintly blue beneath her stripes as she turns to make his wishes a reality. "The chef owes me money," Gwilym murmurs to you; he takes you in, your clothes, your colours. Where you are blue, he is black and red and dangerous. Impeccably dressed - but as the thief as much as the prince, the tight red jacket over the black silk shirt open at the neck, the dark leather trousers tucking into his boots. In a pinch, if he must vanish, the jacket will simply - disappear; and then, so will he. "Order whatever you like, won't you?"
     "Tell me ... how have your studies been going..."

     He is even less immune to your charm than most, being as he is an earnest young man. Taking a seat beside you eagerly, Romero looks to the waitress as she arrives. "A port for me please. And the dates wrapped in ham, por favor. Please," he tacks on. Pink flushes his face and stays there as he catches himself in his native language. "Thank you," he says to her, signaling the end for now.
     "I could easily believe that everyone in the kingdom owes you money," Romero murmurs, looking to you ascant. "Oh, and the studies are going well. I have decided to continue to study here. I will be returning to Andalucia with you and my cousin when you go. But ... I like it here," he glances to you as he speaks, letting his eyes drift around the other sights. "I think I will return when you return. Only without Felix," he smirks at that, looking at you directly.
     I should really avoid direct looks. It's like staring at the sun.
     Romero blinks at you, dazzled momentarily, and then he glances to the table, his skin darkening again. You know the signs, do you not? You can probably feel the increased heart rate that goes with the high color on his cheeks and his throat.
     "How are your ... ventures... or shall I say, adventures," Romero corrects softly. He glances to you as his hand smoothes over the wood of the table. I feel a little tipsy already...

     You blush so much that I feel as if I should blush. Or do other things. Less appropriate things.
     He can't help it, really. He is, ultimately, a predator of sorts; and you? You have sent your guardian away, and sit across from him, wanting him. He feeds on such energy. He watches you with that lean and hungry gaze, and he smiles.
     "Felix seems to me not to understand you," Gwilym agrees. He looks over the wine list - are you not glad? His vision is not upon you, for a few moments. "Port for you, a bottle of Shiraz for me. You can try it, if you like." He gestures expansively - on me - and nudges the wine list aside. Emerald eyes wink slightly as he looks at you again. "You should certainly get rid of Felix. He would be happier at home, growing fat and pinching girls' bottoms as they walk by. I somehow see him retiring to keep a taverna, trying to fondle the wenches when he thinks his wife is not looking. He will marry eventually, of course; he will grumble and swear he never will, now, but eventually, he will marry. And he will have several daughters, whom he guards as jealously as he pursued the wenches before marriage."
     He lays Felix's future out with a casual hand, nonchalant about his own prophesying. "I think he will marry a woman who is plump and will grow stout, who will pretend to be a martinet but will actually allow him a certain amount of room, tolerantly, but coming in to play the evil chatelaine when he is on the verge of regret. He will love her more than he will ever admit, and he will grumble and sigh at his lost freedom while never truly mourning it. His only regret will be that he will have no sons - well. No legitimate sons." Gwilym winks again, making room for the waiter to swing by with the first round of drinks. Port for you, Shiraz for him. "And he will console himself by glaring at any would-be suitors for his daughters, and he will hope without ever admitting it that one might be selected by some member of your family as a bride, as a token for his long and faithful service."
     That tale unwound, he leans to pour red, red wine into his glass for himself, waving off the waiter's help. "You should try some, if you've never had this. It's quite good. Hm? My adventures? Oh, they are going well." And the rapier smile is aimed at you, wickedness in Gwilym's eyes. Mischief is never far, is it? "I do not allow them to go otherwise. What are you studying at the moment?"

     Romero is first amazed, wide-eyed, in your prophecy for Felix. He reaches for your glass then, and holds it to the light. "Is this a crystal ball?" Boldly -- where has he found the courage? Ah, that he gets from the de los Santos line, like his cousin -- he takes a sip of the red wine. "It is good. I will have to try my own glass," he says, returning yours to you. "You have created a nice life for Felix," Romero lilts. "It is perhaps a nicer life than he deserves, but... who am I to say?"
     Taking his glass of port, he lifts it to his nose first and then takes a sip. He smiles at it, and then looks to you. He meets the wicked looks, the winks, head on, and colors at it. As red as the cape of a matador dancing around a bull. "I am ... studying music theory, religious philosophy of Medieval Spain, the history of Islamic Spain, and... Persian poetry of the twelfth and thirteenth century. There is a great deal of reading. By the time the sun sets, I feel like I have words dripping out of my ears. I am so full... I just want to be emptied. So... I come to drink."
     Romero glances to you, eyes lidded. It is a shy look. It is one that knows it is outmatched. It is one that wants to be outmatched. By you. Now. "I like the music and the poetry. The poetry is ... largely about god, but it borders on erotic in some cases." He bites on his lower lip, flushing deeply. "I prefer it to the religious philosophy. But... it is all relatively interesting. Though, I'm sure... with all of your adventure, it must sound boring."
     Sipping at the port again, Romero dares to look at you. His eyes are bright, engaged, as he looks at you. His hand fidgets with the velvet scarf, twisting it around a finger idly. "I... can imagine you have things... well in hand. You are very adept... at whatever you choose to do."
     There is a fluttering energy around him. One that cannot be still around you. He folds one leg over another, lifting his glass of port to finish it in a swallow. He leans forward, taking the bottle of wine and pouring himself a glass of that. "Thank you for ...sharing this with me. It is quite good," Romero murmurs. "You want to get drunk -- I think I will join you in that."

     You gleam as if you are dipped in some sort of honey - pink honey, for your blushing. You are ripe for it, and it is difficult not to want to give you what you are so ripening for. To take you and open you, and use you quite shamelessly...
     He smirks at you, allowing you to take his wine and lifts the glass from you when you have done with a light-fingered touch; one finger dropped to the back of your hand, tracing around and across your wrist. So light it could be coincidence - or just effort to ensure you don't drop the glass, for all your blushing.
     "You think he does not deserve a nice life because he is in your way. He interferes with you because he has little imagination, Felix has. He would be indignant and speak of naked women, voluptuous and in some setting; likely involving good food and better brandy. He cannot imagine that men would prefer the company of other men save as fellows together; remove the clothing and he will throw up his hands and be horrified and perhaps disgusted. Though your cousin makes no real pretense, so perhaps I am mistaken, there." Gwilym refills his glass, lifting it in mock-salute to you, and to the absent Felix.
     He touches his lips to the rim of the glass, letting his tongue's tip play as a slide for the red, red wine as he tips the glass back and his head back, eyes closing as he swallows. You can see the muscles in his neck and throat work; he makes short work of the glass, and then is setting it down, refilling it. "It sounds very dry, for the most part. I would if I were you have ended up ignoring and avoiding." There is that wicked smile again. "I was the despair of my tutor - until later. But that is not a story for public consumption. I could get behind the erotic. I have never had very much interest in god. For one thing, which one?"
     He smirks again, then leans forward to fold his arms along the edge of the table, comfortable in her roost. "So tell me about this erotic poetry. Is it also about god? Or is it actually about what it should be," he grins, "and about the pleasures of the flesh? I could tell you stories..."

     He shimmers, as if the very image of him that exists in the universe is suddenly backed with flame. Romero anchors himself in his chair with the swallow of wine. He all but gulps it, softly gasping as he feels suddenly... light-headed. "Ah...." he says, looking quickly from you to the table. "...ah...well... sometimes in Islamic poetry... the adoration... can seem a little ...almost obscene. But...there is also love poetry."
     Cradling the glass of white to his chest, Romero goes slightly wide-eyed, his cheeks on fire. "Ah... it is ...I ... have taken to translate some of the poetry, si. It..." It is the only intimacy he knows. He does not say that, but by the way he is looking, he does not need to say it. Romero glances to you, wavering slightly as the blood rushes from his head (somehow his cheeks remain crimson). He gulps at the wine. His breaths have not only quickened by they are a little louder as well, noticeable. "This wine... it is very...potent. I think I am already a little...drunk." He lifts a hand to his mouth briefly. "I... you I am sure... well, I think..."
     I think I am going to faint!
     "You have much more experience than I, senor," Romero whispers. He takes another swallow of wine. "Of course, that is not difficult." A moment of levity! "Felix does not understand. It is not just... sex. I mean, I know I am pleasant looking," he glances to you, starting to swoon and looks away again. His legs shift, his other crossing. It is a near constant fidget, his energy. "I just... I wish to ... be with someone worthy. Not ... because I want to be in love. But... I want the first one to... be... especial," he says softly, just between you. "Exceptional. And, si, one day it would be nice to love, but that is not what I am... wanting now... I have my studies...they come first. I am talking too much, si." He finishes the glass of wine and then reaches to pour another.
     The velvet is clinging to him. He can feel every brushed thread. As he sits forward to take the bottle, he unfolds his legs, letting them rest widely. It brings some relief to the constriction. "I read poetry... and ... other things," Romero whispers, his cheeks turning nearly purple. "...so... that when... I am with that person that I am not so..." He wavers again as he looks to you. "... virginal."

     His mouth twists, amused as he is by your dilemma, your difficulty. You look as if you will explode without my even touching you. "There is no point to it, if it is not exceptional. Why waste your seed on anything less than the moon? It is," he chuckles, low in his throat, "purposeless to rut without pleasure, fuck without enjoyment."
     Do you blush at the profanity? He watches to see if you do. Where you are tense and straining, he is lazy, leaning back in his seat and swirling his wine in his glass. His legs are wide-spread as well, but without that urgency of yours. And his darkness, the black of his inner nature unfolds as if hidden wings to mirror the hostess' soft downy ones.
     It is not enough, to see you squirm. If he walks away, it will be so that next time, it will be even harder for you; next time, you will surely fall. And there is a part of him which wants that. To see you fall fully under his influence...
     "Reading isn't enough." Gwilym smiles at you, the too-smooth smile he inherited from his father. His emerald eyes are upon you unwinkingly, and he leans forward to pick up the bottle, refilling his glass and letting the bottle hang to emptiness, the last ruby drops dripping slowly from the spout to the glass below. "You need to take risks, oes? In touching yourself. In finding those who can ... educate you, a little, even if not all the way. Stolen kisses in an alcove. Hands grasping and sliding beneath clothing to grope and tug at the flesh found there. But," he allows, "it may be that you prefer not to prolong things and instead ... experience them all at once. You are bottling yourself up, oes?"
     He smiles again, that thieving, rogue's grin as the last drop begins to fall, and the bottle is quickly lifted, so that last drop falls onto his tongue before he sets the bottle aside with finality. "There is nothing wrong with being virginal," Gwilym counsels casually. "But if you wish not to be, it is easily remedied."

     The profanity is shocking, but already at the point of froth, it is difficult to tell how much. There are so many bubbles in his pent up bottle already. Sitting back with the glass of refreshed wine, he holds it as if it were the only thing keeping him earthbound. Stolen kisses. Groping hands. A racing heart! He actually mouths: Oh dios mio!
     "I have ...been kissed. There was a classmate of mine." Now, he is purple again. "It came to nothing," he quickly adds. "I wanted it to come to some thing. And... yes...I am bottled. Like champagne. But... I do not know...how to approach someone. Just out of the blue. I should die of shyness. I am light-headed already. I am dizzy." But he does not stop drinking.
     "Reading is... definitely not enough. I .. tend to myself," he sets down his glass to put his hands on his cheeks, even to fan himself a little. I am on fire! "Ah... I feel a little dizzy. I think... maybe I should get some fresh air...I have had too much wine."
     Surely it is not because he is aroused and dizzy from your words and your attention.
     "I... wish to experience such things... I want it," he admits it to you softly. So softly. And his eyes lift, looking to you as he tries to catch his breath. "I..."
     I want you to be the one. You, who know so much. You, who I have heard through the walls. It is wrong of me, but I want it. I want to be wrong with you. I want you to show me.
     Now, he cannot stop staring. Unconsciously, his body leans in toward you, and he takes up the wine again, his fingers loosely moving against the glass. His eyes half lid, their rich browns shining. Suddenly, Romero realizes he is staring. He blushes hard, but he does not stop.

     He is tempted; and when he is tempted, he becomes Temptation itself, wicked and impure and smiling with knowing, Byzantine depths to his eyes. Oh yes, you wish. You do, don't you. "Tell me of this classmate of yours." It is casual, but it is still a command. You want to talk about it, don't you? Anything which might lead just a little closer to his lap.
     Gwilym takes a sip of his wine, unperturbed by your staring. There is only one to whom he gives in, now. He takes many, has taken many, from time to time; less than he used to. It has been difficult, limiting himself. But he is far from tame, even now.
     "Do you want to leave?" Gwilym fixes you with his gaze, with that knowing smile. "Or do you want to stay and finish our conversation?"

     "No, no," he murmurs quickly. "No, I ...will stay." I will stay and faint! But I will stay. "Ah, oh," he looks to the table, his fingers playing with the glass. He brings it to his mouth for a sip. "His name was Iago. He comes from a good family in Catalonia. Well, of course," he mutters, "...he and I were...going to the same academia. So, he is a philosophy major. He is working on his second degree, in fact. Very smart. He is not so handsome, but ... he has a way, you know. An attractiveness that is more... as they say... primal. He... ah... he and I were studying late in the biblioteca... ah, that is... the library," he translates, glancing to you. "And he... and I ... kissed... instead of studying."
     Romero glances to you rather slyly and smiles a little. "He was a good kisser. But... he failed his exams and paper and blamed me, I guess. So... he and I are no longer friends. He has removed himself from the academia and is now studying at the cathedral. To be a priest." He bites his lower lip. "I have not kissed anyone since. That has been... two years?" He flushes, looking away. Getting the waitress' attention, he flags down more port. This time, a bottle. "I think maybe I am a bad kisser."

     Iago. His lips twitch slightly. "Never trust anyone named Iago. I would not. Best avoided, really." If you are to be corrupted, let it be not in the direction of murder, after all. He swallows more wine, looking again lazily about, at the waterfall with its half-hidden treasures.
     "Only kissed? Tss. And you have gone two years since then? It takes two, always, to engage in rutting of any sort, be it purely physical or something more. Unless one is unconscious or ensorcelled or the like," Gwilym allows, "but under ordinary circumstance. I doubt that you are a bad kisser. If he was so engaged in kissing you that he failed his work, then why would you be a bad kisser? The available evidence says quite the opposite. Have you ever been to other planes?"
     He is curious, now. Contemplative of such mischief; to drag you through a London club and press you up against a corner, making you tremble and feel his heat. To do worse, perhaps, than just that. Why is it so tempting, to break you beyond just stealing your innocence, and reshape you into a creature of longing and passionate lusts which can only be fulfilled the once? But - it is what I want. And I am not one to deny myself the pleasures I wish.
     No, the only thing which keeps Gwilym in his seat, smiling and thinking such villainy, is the tacit acknowledgment of who waits for him at home.

     "Other planes?" For a moment, he seems truly confused but then he shakes his head. "I have only been to Andalucia and ... here." He blushes hard again, looking to the waitress, thankfully, when she brings him a bottle of port. He pours a glass of it. "I am the most sheltered man in all the world. I am followed by Felix, hired by my parents, who wish me to remain a virgin and become a priest. Sometimes, I think I will just do that... just to make them be quiet."
     The flush colors his smile as he glances to you with his port in hand. "Maybe... maybe I am a good kisser. And I am firing Felix," he says with sudden passion, his hand slapping the table. "I don't care what they say."
     Romero finishes his glass of port in a swallow, his eyes gleaming with insobriety. "Gwilym," he murmurs to you. "...Gwilym... I want it to be tonight. I am free from Felix. Will you help me?" He leans in toward you. "I need your help. You... you are the only one who can help me. Please."
     You have watched him, teased him, bewitched him, seduced him -- all without landing a single touch. He is yours. He will follow you to wherever you lead. And better still, he wants to be led. To be shown.

     "Do nothing to make your parents be quiet. It doesn't work, anyway." Gwilym grins at that. "If they love you, they will love you when you take your own happiness. And if they cannot reconcile - then they need a lesson in not getting what they want anyway."
     You make your declaration of independence, such as it is, with your own brand of fireworks, and he smiles, darkness lurking behind his eyes with the appetite of a tiger in some wooded jungle. And he hovers on the edge of a decision. Will he or won't he?
     Abruptly, he rises to his feet, leaning over you, hooking a finger into the opening of your shirt, warm touch sliding against your skin as he pulls you forward and up. "Anyone can help you," Gwilym croons to you, "but you do not want anyone, oes? But if I help you," and his eyes glint emerald again, his smile wide and brilliant, "you will not be home in the morning. Felix will worry."
     He bends his head, breathing out against your ear. "And," his voice is pooled like silk, "you may find tomorrow difficult to face. I can help you, if it is what you desire. But you will never be a priest."

     Romero shudders as you touch him, lift him, as he feels your breath on his ear. He has to close his eyes to steady himself, but he finds his resolve. He lifts his hand, sliding his fingers against your own. It is the bravest thing he's ever done. "It is what I want," he whispers, tipping his head to look at you. To look at you between hooded lashes. He is suppliant. He is ready. "It's what I want. To hell with Felix, si? To hell with him."
     Dios mio, he mouths. He leans in as if he will kiss you right here in the middle of the restaurant. "I do not want to be a priest. I will come," he can only hope! "It will do Felix some good to worry. Why should I be the only one?"
     He is beyond feeling -- though part of that is due to the port and wine -- and he is beyond shame, beyond recognizing that his excitement is obvious in the cling of velvet. He does not care. He is on the slippery slope, he feet are sliding, and he gives his weight to the motion. He gives himself to your tutelage.

     He laughs, eyes gleaming with wickedness and mirth at your predicament. You lean, and he withdraws as silent as a cat, finger still hooked so that you must follow him. He will not kiss you here. Instead, his hand slips up to your shoulder, as if to steady you, control you. "We will go elsewhere," Gwilym answers you carelessly. "This isn't the place for it, oes? Too much public light."
     Too much public light, too many public eyes. He shuns all publicity save that which he chooses for himself. He eases you forward in front of him, clever fingers stealing to the nape of your neck, and he leans forward to whisper to you again. "Go forward," he whispers, breath stirring the fine hairs there. "Out of this place and into shadows. I make no promises, little would-be priest. You must take me on faith."
     He chuckles, the sound lingering deep in his throat. Do you feel his eyes on you? His fingers caress again lightly, then prod you forward. His footsteps are soundless behind you, but he is following; you may feel the warmth of his presence. There is no reassurance offered you. You are being urged forward into darkness.

     His steps are graceful if uneven. He is drunk -- it takes so little. And he is drunk on more than port and wine. He moves, you move him. He walks, you lead him. Romero shivers as you touch him, shiver as you whisper to him. "I will... I do," he whispers. "I believe in you... We are like lutes," he recites so prettily, "... once held by God. Being away from his warm body fully explains this...constant yearning. That is Hafiz," he whispers. "One of the poets... in the book."
     His head is full of poetry, his mind is full of fog, his blood is full of fire. As he moves into the darkness with you, you are behind him, he consciously moves slowly, wanting to feel you behind him, against him.
     He is red, burning bright as a torch. He dares not touch himself. He begs to be touched by someone else. "... I have chained my every dancing atom into a divine seat in the Beloved's Tavern. What I have learned... I am so eager to share..."
     Romero tips his head back and sighs. He moans to the moon, to the shadows, to the pin pricks of stars he can feel all over his skin.

     He is silent now, smiling with a predatory gleam from behind you. He lets you recite; he does not argue. He is only half-listening as he guides you from the table, past the winged woman (who looks disappointed but doesn't call or interrupt; she knows something of predation). There are alcoves and passages; there are everywhere shadows to be found. For you, all you are aware of is darkness rising like a veil to swallow you both.
     His hand never pulls away from that hoveringly light touch at the nape of your neck.
     You pass through darkness, and behind you there is a shift, transformation from light to shadow to darkness, like the dials of a clock being rearranged. When the veil at last falls (though it could not have been more than a few moments), you are in an alleyway. Somewhere, you can hear the sound of revelers making merry, not too far off. But you are here and aside from Gwilym, still behind you, you are alone.
     You are turned so that your back is to the wall, and he lopes forward, smiling as he leans forward and over you. One arm drapes against brick next to your head; his other hand comes up to lightly caress your cheek. "You are trading angels for devils. And yet, you cannot imagine anything else right now, can you."
     His hand drops, a fingertip dragging down the center of your chest slowly, sticking against you until the pressure stops and remains, just above your groin. Gwilym smiles, bending his head so his lips are close to yours.
     Do not try to save me. Redemption is not worth thinking of; it is a lie, anyway. You will feel as if for the first time, and I? I will break you, because it is what I do. One way or another, it is what I do.
     "Say my name," Gwilym laughs quietly, and he traces the tip of his tongue against your lips. "Say what you want. If you know it."

     He cannot see the changing of the world. He does not know he is standing in an alley. He can see only your mouth, feel only your hand. Romero does not wither -- but then, he is of hardy stock. Though he is shy, he needs you more. His hips move, seeking to feel more of your hand, more of your touch. He is squirming in the darkness, his breaths quickening. When you trace his lips with your tongue, his body openly twists, and his mouth parts for a gasp.
     "Gwilym Gwyn Garu," he whispers, speaking your name like a charm against the darkness, as if it shall conjure light or open Aladdin's Cave. "Gwilym Gwyn Garu," Romero repeats, "I want you to take me. I want you to teach me. I trade all my angels... all of the santos," his mouth parts, trying to capture you in a kiss, to taste your tongue. "Por favor," he whispers. "It is what I want. To know what it is like to scratch, to moan, to be filled. Ah," he gasps again, his body twitching -- your hand at his belly can feel it. "Oh ...dios mio... I need it so much. Please show me... what it is like. To be alive."
     He does not ask for love; that is not what this is about. He asks, he pleads, he begs for you to touch him, take him, teach him. His body writhes against the brick, his hips curling forward and back. The velvet that clings him now clasps him, squeezes him. "I give myself to you, to your care, to your teaching. A student in the dark. A disciple in shadow." His hands reach out to you, reaching to touch you. "I want it..."

     You say his name, and he answers to it. You do not compel him; his own inner nature does, the compulsion to feed upon your innocence and your willingness. He is struggling to master that compulsion, that he rides atop it, rather than it riding him. He is still young yet. But his mouth comes down upon yours, and your lips are parted deftly, he steals his way into your mouth as ruthlessly as if it were more monetary treasure. A brief possession only, his tongue flickering against yours, against the roof of your mouth like flame, teeth scraping casually across your lower lip upon the withdrawal. His tongue is there to soothe it only briefly; and he steps back.
     A lock of hair falls across one eye like a pirate's patch, and there is the knowing smile with its depths of antiquity again. Unhurriedly, his hands move to your shirt and he begins to undress you. It is done by inches; your skin revealed to the dark night and its cool air, his hands taking charge of your flesh as it is made apparent to him. And he begins to speak to you, in a quiet, assured voice.
     "I will teach you such things as you have been dreaming of only vaguely, knowing nothing but your own imaginings and the taunting of words which do nothing to explain truth of things, only hint at revelations to come. You will be bared to me, here in this alley, in my bed, across a desk; I will show you little mercy because you do not come to me for mercy but for experience. You will be changed. It would change anyone, but you... more than most..."
     He leans in, mouth grazing your chin, sucking at your throat before he bends to capture a nipple. The flat of his tongue presses against it, the tip then lazily spiraling around it. And your shirt is tugged from you and set free. Gwilym glances to your face, and smiles...

     His lips are softer than his smile, and they part beneath your own in orange-flavored acquiescence. Orange and hazelnut are the potions on his tongue, to bewitch any who might taste them and to sweeten his breath. He has kissed, but his lips are as new as if you were the first pirate to pass him by. He opens to you, lets you in, tries to capture your tongue...
     And you leave him panting. As you undress him, he tips back his head, moaning to the moon again without shame, without the comprehension that any might hear him or see him ravished in an alley. He gives himself to your care with a trust bordering on reckless. You say you will teach him. The student gives himself to the study utterly and without inhibition.
     The silk falls loosely, easily off, his body rolling out of it in a writhe against your hand. The velvet leggings strain in their arabesque blue. "Burn the sky of my eyes, until open or closed all I see is flesh and fire," Romero chants it on panted breaths. "Teach me, change me... I want to feel it... I want to feel it all...ah, dios," he hisses as your tongue teases his nipple. It is hard, his young and hairless chest strong from fencing. He is athletic -- beautifully so. Romero twists to look at you, to watch you, gaping. He is entranced. He is bewitched. He is bared, stripped of hesitation. "Teach me to please you. For if I can please you, I could please any man."
     His slender fingers slide into your hair, slipping against your scalp, anchoring to you. His strong thighs, shaped by rapier training, spread to balance himself between you and the wall and the intense wave of pleasure.

     He smiles against your skin, the faint, narrow smile of feral victory. His fingers press in against you, letting silk fall where it will. It will be found much later by puzzled urchins with no concept of what has transpired. "You will learn," Gwilym grins at you, voice cocky. "No fear of that."
     He squeezes you, just this side of painfully; then his hands maneuver away your trousers. You are being stripped of all clothing, here in the alley, dank and dark though it is. Behind you, cold bricks are rough against your skin. And in front of you, he is entirely without mercy, revealing you, stroking you as you are revealed, pulling back when there seems a chance you might enjoy it 'too' much.
     He drops to one knee, smirking faintly as he cocks one eyebrow up as he peers up along you. His hand wraps tightly around the base of your cock, and he stands again, dragging his hand along you. "You'll learn," Gwilym croons. One hand goes to his own belt, and he easily undoes the buckle, undoes the fastenings, until the material sags under the weight of the leather threaded through the loops.
     It's a bit dirty, but I think you will enjoy that, after all your purity and innocence and whiteness. Virginity is so overrated. I will have you embrace darkness with me, find your way in shadows by focusing on the hidden...
     "Go on, then," Gwilym rasps it out, grinning with that wicked mirth. "See what comes natural to you. Fold your lips over your teeth and you'll reduce the risk of biting. Don't bite - there, anyway. It brings an evening to a screeching halt."

     He is no Prospero -- few are -- but what is between his legs is no disappointment. Larger than average, thick, his flesh is engorged, red and oiled with his arousal. He is so close, and you've barely touched him. A squeeze around the root of his member stills him. He stares at you beneath hooded lashes, his mouth parted, moist from your kiss and from his tasting you on his lips.
     As you unfasten your trousers, Romero falls to his knees -- his shoulders will show the scrapes, and his knees will have the cobble imprints on them for at least a day -- and his hands reverently unfold the fabric away from your flesh. His hands slide against you, feeling you from base to tip, and he anchors himself there. Eyes closed, he moves the velvet crown against his lips, tracing them, rubbing you against his mouth lewdly. His tongue peeks out and flicks you, tastes you. Like a kitten lapping at milk, his tongue laps against your head, quickly, wildly, and then along the shaft.
     How you taste, how you feel! He is blushing, you can feel the heat of it emanating from his skin, as his mouth clamps hotly against the side of your shaft. Trailing, open-mouthed, he strokes it from the base to the head. As you instruct, he pulls his lips over his teeth, keeping them out of the way, and sliding his wet, warm mouth over the crown to take you in. He kisses you there, his tongue flickering within his mouth and against you as he slides his mouth over you more. It is slow, achingly so, and he slowly swallows you, taking you as deeply as he can without engaging his gag reflex.
     His hands grasp and squeeze you, his fingers padding against you as his head starts to bob back and forth. His eyes open, looking up at you from between your thighs, seeing if you approve, if you like it.
     Those little flicking touches dance across your head, along the cleft and around your shaft. His breaths are taken through the nose, and tries squeezing you in his mouth, suckling you.

     One hand slides down, across your hair to your cheek and then back up and into your hair. His fingers make free with it; not tearing, but taking charge. He commands you without even thinking about it, as naturally as if instinct had given him all the training he could ever need. "Oes," Gwilym murmurs, eyes hooded. "Slow is good. Work on it a little at a time. There's nothing sexy about," he grins, "vomit."
     A natural. Good. Duw, you'd be wasted in seminary, in the priesthood. Always guilty over the vaguest thought, let alone deed. Better you be set free of that, oes? And in the shadows...
     He tugs lightly on your hair, signaling for you to set your mouth free of him. A hand comes down to support your arm, drawing you up, nudging you back against the wall. His hands run down across your body, one grasping at your thigh and dragging it up to his hip. He leans forward, pressing in with a roll of his hips and that grin. "Tell me what you see," Gwilym murmurs; he steals your mouth and your answer with it, taking possession, suckling at your tongue and then at your lips before you are given the chance to reply. "And close your eyes..."

     From his knees to the wall, he moves easily. He does not feel the stone beneath his feet, the dankness there. He does not feel the coolness of the stone at his back. But he feels your hands, the warmth from your skin. You move him so easily -- he is completely pliant to your words, your touch. You lift his thigh and he curls it around your back. He starts to speak, you steal his mouth like the jewel off a lady's finger, and then you command him again.
     So much stimulation, and not all of it overtly sexual...
     Romero closes his eyes, winding his arms around your neck to anchor himself. Such a wanton pose -- he is open to you in all ways and now you ask for his imagination too...
     And he gives it to you...
     "I..." he blushes, a part of him suddenly shy -- but strangely not about being lifted and ravished in an alley. "...I see you twisting me into shapes that please you," he laughs softly. "And I see me being all too willing to bend." Opening his eyes, Romero leans forward, trying to steal your mouth. He reaches back with a hand, parting himself more, physically and symbolically opening himself to you as you start to press in. Tipping his head back, he rolls his eyes closed. "I see ...me twisting...under Delight... loving the shadows and the groping hands that feed in them..."
     His hips wiggle, his shoulders digging into the brick as he braces himself. "Ah... Gwi...lym," he starts to pant. "How I want you. I need you in me. I need to feel full of you. Please." He chants that to the air, chants until he conjures what he wants.
     "I see you," Romero whispers, "... I see you," his eyes are delicately closed. "I see you fucking me in this alley. Please!" His voice lifts in a pleading moan.

     There is that feral smile that borders on the vicious but through some enigma, escapes toppling over into violence. Gwilym does not speak; not now. Instead, as you anchor yourself, you are hitched up, the hardness of his freed length pressing against you. "Here and not here," he murmurs. He presses against you, presses you against the brick, arms supporting under your thighs. And then the brick vanishes.
     Your eyes are still closed; you do not witness how the shadows again swallow you both, and deposit you, you and him, somewhere else. You know it because you are suddenly laid upon scattered silks strewn across a hard surface. His hand goes to the center of your chest, using it to pry himself free.
     "You will be opened to me." Gwilym smiles at you, emerald gaze now intent and unwinking. It is at the heart of his Self, the center of his power, where only so few have been taken, and so rarely. A stone-built room in the heart of his maze of shifting chambers, his shadow palace which leads everywhere and nowhere. You are laid upon a stone slab strewn with silk coverlets in scarlet and ivory white, with stone sconces lit by dim and flickering lamps.
     He stands over you, casually disrobing of the remainder of his clothing before he moves forward to prop a knee on the stone. "You will have me," Gwilym tells you, voice making it both promise and threat. "I will not easily be satisfied. Nor do you wish to be, oes?" A swipe through shadows, and his cupped hands part over you to spill olive oil warmed by a Tuscan sun upon your belly. His hands come down upon you, and begin to slowly smooth over your skin, rubbing the oil there, down along your thighs, trickling over your member and between the rounds of your ass.
     "Shadows can be elusive - and illusive. You must never assume you know what they contain or what they mean." Gwilym's fingers begin to spread you, oil making matters slippery. Without haste, you are slowly filled; first one finger and then two, his eyes not leaving your face. Your every reaction is absorbed, drunk in as much as any fine vintage of wine or brandy, his smile remaining faint and intent... and intensity burns in him, lighting him as some dark beacon, an inverse of light. "You will have me. And your life will be changed by it."

     Worlds fold and unfold around him. Shadows like arms slide against his skin, against his senses already numb from your fingers, your mouth, his mouth on your cock. He falls, but the softness of silk and the hardness of stone both catch him, and you. His eyes widen, flashing cinnamon and brown, and his pretty mouth forms an 'O' in surprise.
     And then you are oiling him...
     He rolls his eyes grandly, closing them as he turns his head side to side. And his body spreads, his strong thighs spreading. In the light of this secret chamber, under the flickering hue of your candlelight, he is gorgeous. A splendid sacrifice, the auger oils dripping against his thighs. "Like all knowledge," he whispers in panted breaths, "...when you think you know, you realize you know nothing."
     He is thick and long, so hard it trembles against his taut belly. Your hand makes it twitch; it twitches and then his whole body convulses. Spreading his legs widely, he lifts them, his hands reaching down, touching himself, his hands spreading the rounds of his rear to receive your fingers.
     He has read -- he is a student, yes? -- he knows to relax to the sensations. His rear wiggles. "I want to be changed. Utterly. Thoroughly," Romero groans. "To be transformed..." His words cut off in a whine as you are two fingers deep. His face is beatific, experiencing religious rapture. His skin, normally very fair, is blushed at his rear, crimson at his hardened member, and scarlet at his face. He is beyond words now, his thighs trembling.
     He arches, twisting beneath you, his fingers pressing into the flesh at his rear, straining to hold on, parting himself to receive more, even more. His body begs where his mouth may not.

     A third finger joins two, twisting before they are removed. He waits silently, leaning over you, letting the renewed emptiness make an agony of desire, a longing of lust. You will want a little more than you have, always, with him, until it becomes too late.
     It becomes too late rather quickly...
     Silently, he positions himself, the thick head of his cock rubbing against your sensitized flesh. An arm loops under your thigh, pulling up a bit, arranging you so that you are all the more opened to him. His face is in shadow; his eyes, shadowed further by the gleaming wings of red-gold hair that falls forward over them. His weight is pushed forward, and slowly, agonizing in his slowness, he sinks into you by degrees.
     By degrees. He is a thief, and you are acutely made aware of what he is taking from you. The faint smile remains on his face, but he otherwise is silent, giving no indication of pleasure or pain or even of the effort of such painstaking work. You are spread beneath him, and you are opened, further and further, everything that is there to be taken being stolen, persuaded, or simply ripped from you and into his possession.
     It seems unending, but finally there is the solid little slap of his groin against your rear, burying himself fully within you. He lets you quiver on his cock like that without withdrawing for a long moment; and then, just as slowly, he begins to withdraw to halfway. Forward, and back; Gwilym is an expert at the art of torture, for he makes you feel every part of him before he begins to set up a slow, easy rhythm. "So pretty," he mutters. "And you want it, oes? And there is no reason why you cannot have it..."

     He is a mass of nerves, each one firing at the speed of light. Even his voice strains to catch up with him, his coos and moans seeming delayed. Romero wiggles, his hips circling on your fingers. His mouth open, gaping, he arches, twisting and trying something new -- clamping down around you. It sends his muscles into twitching jerks, and he flares around you again, relaxing. There is pain, he is sweating with it. But it is beyond pleasurable. His mind is blown apart by your softest whisper.
     And then he is empty, horribly vacant. Romero's eyes flash open, brightly pleading. There is a look of astonishment and disappointment, his whines softening into murmured begging. "No, no, no...don't stop... " These barely lift from his lips when you are settling over him. Romero frees his own flesh, his arms sliding around you, manicured nails scratching your sides. His hands press, as if to pull you forcibly into him, and his body is a constantly writhing creature beneath you. You feel his breath hold when the crown of your cock presses at his anus and then sinks in. He gulps air, arching, trying to remember to relax not to clench. "Dios, dios, dios," he whispers, moaning.
     Romero pulls his thighs up, his rear lifting to receive you as you suddenly thrust, his ankles nearly to his shoulders. "Si!" he shouts out, his bottom wiggling against your groin. He is shiny with sweat, his every muscle on edge. "Oh yes.... I want it... I want it all..." You feel him clenching and releasing against you, his body furiously trying to catch up to his brain, to adjust to your size. "Take it... and give it to me..." he says, his eyes opening, fixing on your own.
     Fingers anchor in your hair. He holds on to you, dazzled by you, filled by you. And his hips start to curl forward and back, trying to join you in your own motions. Those lovely lips purse. He is seductive without trying. Such a waste, had he followed his mother's advice. Every arch, every wiggle, every twitch is a delight.

     Your mother's heart will surely break. You will not be any sort of priest to follow a Christian god, now, but instead, a pagan priest, one who knows the value of writhing in darkness, of sacrifices made and sacrifices gained. She will blame my Other, your cousin, perhaps. Probably. Bad influence; terrible influence. Isn't it a shame? His mouth curves as he predicts your future much as he earlier in the night predicted the future of poor, fat Felix. You will be my high priest, whether you know it or not. I have sacrificed you to myself, and taken you as my own. And through you, the world shall know me...
     You are an eager partner in this joining. As he fills you, you pull him further into you, yourself further onto him, and he smiles again. His mouth descends onto yours, crashing, tugging, pulling away again with an audible sound.
     His movements are growing faster; rougher, as his pleasure increases, his control over himself loosening a little at last. Gwilym smiles with feral hunger in his belly, hands rearranging you again, a low growl an undercurrent of his words. "Say my name. Say who I am, little Spanish seminarian. There is none here to hear you except me."

     No, he shall not be any sort of priest but the pagan sort. On him you will sweat, and the earth will yield its harvest Here and There. His fingers plow the earth of your skin, digging into sides, curling against your back, as he throws himself upon you. He is not silent -- his voice whines and moans, shouts and nearly sobs in delight beyond comprehension as you quicken, deepen, your every stroke turning strong, rough.
     And he likes it. He begs for it. He needs it.
     "Gwi...lym... Gwyn... Ga...ru," Romero purrs out, arching beneath you, his legs anchoring around your jostling hips. "King... of...sex... pleasure ... pain ... king ... of ... my...body...!" He is trembling, taut, his feet curling hard as you pummel him. "Si... harder...make me bear your weight... bear your darkness... bear your light."
     His mouth lifts, claiming you again, his tongue swirling in your mouth, lapping at your palate as his hips wildly swivel. He feeds off your hunger; it sets off his own. He accepts your magic, and he is the conduit for it, his sweat the binding source.
     "I... would... serve... so... gladly ...dios!" His cock twitches, pressed between your stomach and his own, stroked. His body begins to convulse. He is close. Will you let him release so easily? He hopes not!
     "Turn me... turn me over," Romero pants, wildly begging. "I want... I need... to feel... you be...hind me... taking...taking what you need...in my sha...dows..."

     There is nothing 'easy' about Gwilym (though some of the girls in the whorehouses might dispute it a little). But they do not know him as he really is; as he reveals himself to be, to you. As you begin to convulse, he smoothly pulls out of you, standing over you with his cock shining with oil. And he does not speak.
     Instead, his hands descend upon you and turn you over, a hand casually rucking up the silk as he does so. You are pressed against silks now. Your cock is all but enveloped in a sleeve of it as he encourages legs to spread, arms to fold, lightly pressing on your back to push you down as his cock positions again to enter you.
     It is slow again; torture, the way he fills you so slowly, even more slowly than the first time. "I am always in shadow," Gwilym murmurs in your ear. One arm casually loops around you, between you and the stone. "I take what I please, when I please. And right now, you please me ... very much." With a little push, he fills you suddenly, sharply, snapping his hips and smiling to himself as your body reacts. "I take what I want. And right now, I am taking you."

     Romero spreads his thighs, arching to lift his rear, presenting it to you as you slowly move to cover him. His entire body tremors with the sudden sharpness of your thrusts, and he curls his hips forward and back, throwing himself with passion back against you, meeting you, redoubling the sharpness of your thrusts, impaling himself, the willing sacrifice.
     Every muscle is trembling, and the silk around his member is one sensation to much. You feel him lock up, gasping loudly, and you feel the thousand spasms of his orgasm around your cock. The silk it wet, stained by his tremendous release. But rather than flagging, his cries lift again and he throws himself with renewed vigor upon your hard length.
     Who knew that such a shy young man could be such a wild thing?
     "I ... want ... to ...please my ...king," he coos, lifting his rear to meet you, greet you. The spasms subside but he does not. Romero stretches, circling his hips in exaggerated motion to feel you inside him, on all surfaces. "So good, so good," he chants, he nearly sings it. "I am ... here... for your pleasure... take it...what you need...whatever you need...your... ma...majesty...oh, harder," he pleads. "More..."
     His flesh flares widely, adjusting to suit you, to fit you, you pave the way. Twisting, Romero clenches the silk in his hands. He is panting, his member engorged again. The silk slides against him like a hand. Lowering his face back to the silk, he reaches behind him, his hands spreading his rear to you. It is lewd, it is uninhibited, it is wholly without shame, it is a symbol of his sacrifice.
     "I... will... be...you...altar," he groans into the silk, his breaths hard and fast. "Cover me... with...your sweat and oils... I am... your rite..."

     Your words do reach his ears, distant though he is. And he is distant; eyes heavy-lidded, he is focused, transfixed in this sacramental ritual. He is absorbed thoroughly in what he is doing, and you become merely the vessel for it. He fills you, he pulls away; it is an ebb and tide of shadows around the moon, with no pun intended, alike to the sea.
     But it is his brother which is the ocean. He himself is merely the juxtaposition of darkness and light. It is in shadows that such deeds as these are done...
     "I cover you, and accept what you give. It is mine," Gwilym breathes out, the words coming with a groan. He is swollen hard, now, so thick that he himself is tortured; the king's sacrifice. His hips snap, popping against you before he pulls back, and his rhythm begins to grow unsteady again. "With only the promises such a covenant implies..."
     Darkness threatens to claim him, viper-like and strong. You are taken; possessed, as he regains his control of himself. Emerald eyes lock onto you, so that you can feel that gaze weighing upon you, as his pace picks up. You are shifted with every thrust. "Take it," Gwilym grinds the words out, voice deepened, rasping, "the weight of a king."

     He accepts you, moving as you move him, lifting his rear to receive you, unfurling like a king's standard. He snaps with groans, his arms stretching in front of him like the first lines of a royal army. Romero is beyond words, beyond poetry. He is a bundle of nerves, synapses, all firing in separate directions. His light brown hair is darkened with his sweat as he goes prostrate before the weight of his king.
     Wiggling, arching, he dances for your pleasure, his thigh muscles tight - they will ache for all his effort tomorrow - and his flesh is swollen, swollen around your hardness, swollen between his legs. "Oh, my king... find your rule in me... your rule in me..." Romero arches his neck back, tossing his head as he gasps and whines. You feel him spasm around you again, stronger this time, his entire body buckling. His strained voice pulls from his throat in an expression of blinding pleasure and stupefying pain. His body convulses in orgasm, but it is prolonged, charged by your own force, your own presence, your own majesty, your own magic.
     Trembling, Romero collapses to the silken, stony surface. His thighs spread widely, his rear lifted. He lifts and lowers his bottom, the spasms continuing, as he tries to meet your erratic thrusts with his own. "Ah, my king...my king...I am your cipher," he exhales. "Your priest and your disciple. Fill me, command me... I am here for your will."
     He empties himself on the silk, the last drops of his release squeezed against the silk, but his grip around you still contracts and relaxes in orgasm. His moment of coherence dissolves again into staccato gasps.

     Find what I find wherever so I shall find it. The shadows are a maze, and I trod upon their ways with sure feet, knowing instinctively which way to go. Instinct; I operate on instinct...
     He fills you with a final, thorough-intentioned thrust, his back arching with an elastic snap as his eyes go half-closed and he stares into the nothingness of fulfillment. All men visit this place at some point, with unequal degrees of enlightenment; some for a moment see the universe, others understand themselves. Others find only the solace of momentary pleasure.
     Gwilym feels himself emptying and expanding. The universe expands.
     The pleasure takes hold of him, and he is in this moment sightless, at his most vulnerable. Any king being crowned bends his head and exposes his neck; and now, he sinks, slowly, on hands and knees over you. Eleven strong pulses, seeming to last an eternity; in his mind, it is lasting an eternity. You are filled past completion; he is emptied past endurance. And he crouches over you as an animal over its meal, a tiger over his kill, unseeing, unknowing.

     The tremors dissolve, passing as yours overwhelm him. He is spread, luxurious, lewd, the definition of hedonistic pleasure. You may be at your most vulnerable, but he is in no position to take advantage of such. His hips make their last little circles as you release into him. "Oh, my king," are the last words from his lips.
     He slips from consciousness, drifting into a fainting sleep.
     He will dream such vivid fantasies. In the realm of sleep, copulations shall be unending. He will wake in need of a bath both to cleanse and to soothe his flesh. The pulse of him around you is still strong, his body loudly complaining, thudding around your twitching cock. Romero breathes in sleep, his huffing-puffing starting to slow, to normalize. You have fucked him into oblivion.
     Power moves through him, from you, charged by his own energy, his own abilities, and returning to you threefold. Where you remain joined becomes the center of the universe. In sleep, he spreads his legs wider, his aching body trying to find some element of comfort...

     He is slow to pull from you, not out of intent to torture further but because at first, he simply lacks the energy. Even as you are passing out, he is struggling to pull himself up; he slips from you limply, feeling limp all over as he slides off of the altar and to the floor, leaning heavily against the stone.
     Already, it is changing him. Energy moves through him again, renewed, despite his exhaustion. Gwilym sinks to his knees as if praying, oblivious to the world. He kneels there, where you lie spent; you the sacrifice and he his own high priest in this moment. His own heart's beating is as that of an immense ritual drum; and where you slide into dreams of one sort, he slides only by degrees into a state of half-waking, half-sleeping, entirely transcended.
     With visions of the forest, thick and wild...
     The shadows of the road, and off it...
     Treasures which can unfold to man become - almost - paltry in comparison...

     ... There are steps in the forest, and a red-haired man, broad as a mountain and clothed in the regalia of a 12th Century Warrior Princeps, appears. Under his right arm, is a bundle of forest-colored silk. He appears quietly, his disposition quieter. There is, in fact, a wash of relief.
     It's about god damn time, isn't it?
     He takes the forest-colored bundle out from under his arm and unwraps it, letting the silk fall to the ground. The silk transforms into a holly tree, berries ripe and full. In his hands, there is a crown of horns, antlers, symbols of kingship and of Gwilym Gwyn Garu - William the White Stag. "Your majesty," Davydd's voice sounds quietly, "... I believe this belongs to you." He holds it aloft, ready to place it on your head. "So the kingship passes, as it was meant to," Davydd ap Owain speaks, "...from the old to the young, from father to son... or grandfather," his mouth twitches in a smile, "... to grandson. Now... the Oak King and the Holly King are aligned as they should be."

     It is a dream, surely? Gwilym is aware of the vision as it happens, but in that detached stupor which follows such physical and magical exertions. In his dream, he watches you step forward, himself in the white he so seldom wears. He wore it once - the night he met Prospero. And white the night he was born; and now he wears it again, stepping forward to meet you as you hold the crown to him.
     If this were London, it would be followed by some mouthy quip; but Gwilym bends his head, accepting crown and mantle and the weight that comes with kingship and being crowned. "The world will be made new again, as it is every year." There is the faint shadow of his usual brilliant smile, the mystery of whether it is quip or serious comment. And for a moment, he is bright and shining, as brilliant as Christmas berries against the dazzling white of snow.

     In the forest, he stands before his grandson, his hands upon the antlers until the crown is seated in place. Davydd looks at you, smiling with tremendous affection. "Long live the Holly King."

     The weight is, for a moment, immense, as if it might drive him to his knees. As if he were trying to carry the weight of the earth upon his shoulders; and then, the moment passes. It is no longer any weight at all, a part of him, as if the antlers, far from being external, grow from his own head. White turns to blooded red leathers, the black and green mantle of the Holly King folding about him. Gwilym straightens. "Long live the Holly King," he echoes. "Until Time itself passes away."
     It is a difference, this role. This being. But it is all as in a trance, a vision of what may be, separated as he is from reality. Already the moment is slipping away...

Posted by rowan at November 09, 2007 01:35 PM