It has been a long, hard slog through mud and blood, through tears and trials, through fire and water and at the point of the sword. He has come through them all; not unscathed, but he has come through. He is harder than he was, in some ways more silent, more thoughtful, though still with that wondering, wandering smile inherited from his father. At the moment, it is directed - along with an emerald gaze - at paperwork.
"Never would've become a king had I known there'd be so much bloody paperwork," Gwilym cracks the words out as if there is someone there listening. He sprawls back in his seat, tossing his hands up in the air; and coincidentally (or not), the papers. There is a brief shower of papers and scrolls which flutter listlessly to the floor around him. He groans, stretching and leaning back in his seat, then stands to turn his chair towards the window.
It is nearing midnight, Io. I have stayed away as faithfully as once we were together. It is not what I want, but it is what we both need. I have accepted it. You ... belong with Tiernan, now. And I? I am what I always was. The interloper. The thief of hearts, to whom even my own brother ultimately had to bow.
The thought is without arrogance, with mingled satisfaction and sadness. It is something to be smug about - seducing the High King, seducing one's brother, if one's of a certain mindset. And if nothing else, Gwilym is as he has always been : pragmatic. He leans back in his seat, dressed simply in black leather trousers and a white tunic open at the neck, red hair long enough to be tousled but not really any longer. The beard's gone, now, for the first time in years; he is barefoot and a little tired.
"Still," Gwilym whispers aloud, lazing back and looking at the sky, "I miss you..."
Miss being entangled, entwined; part of a whole, something greater than myself alone. I miss you, brawd, and I miss that. But I know it is for the best. I don't, however, have to LIKE it...
Tempus fugit...
Velut corvus fugit...
Ravens and years both fly, and flocks like months have ticked across the sky of time. You are king of ever growing territories, hillocks and mounds, meadows of former chaotic and corrupted earth, now transformed to the renewal that the Holly King brings, always with the sacrifice of blood and toil.
And as the land has been transformed by the King, so too the royal servitors to the King have been transformed in his service. Five years have come and gone, flung upon them like your papers in the air, and once Gangly Youth has become the force of Maturing Man.
One half of a set, Aeron ap Davydd, arrives upon a flutter of shadow and reality, the darkness flapping around him and settling around him like the feathers of a bird. He was not, and then he was, appearing suddenly like the specter that he is.
But what specter was ever so solid? Black shadows clothe his strong legs, battle made and battle ready. They fit to him not as material or hide, even the most refined leathers, would fit, but rather more like second skin. Though barely a layer of such, the dark shadowed armor follows the contours of his legs before transforming to boots that make no sound.
His upper body is bare of clothing, bare of shadow, but not bare. From the side of his neck past his waist where shadows clothe him, his entire right side is covered in ornate, obsidian tattoos. Billowing shadow forms, the clouds and stuff of dreams -- that land between Life and Death -- are filled with flocks of ravens, the Corvus, stylized in Celtic swirls, interlocking forms, and ravens of more modern styles -- a blend of his Age and his father's. Over the broad muscles of his right arm, his shoulder, his chest, the clouds of dreams and the ravens that create them with the flapping of their dark wings fades into lines, fragments of poetry.
To know the meaning of the poems scrawled there, one would need to view the lines scripted upon his own brother's skin...
His dark red hair is kept short and neat, the longest portions of it barely brushing against the nape of his neck, and his dark green eyes are the echo of his father's. There are resemblances, certainly. He has his father's cheekbones, those high cliffs that frame his face, and his small Brythonic nose with a tendency to freckle. But he (and his twin) have his mother's heart-shaped face that gives him a fineness that his father lacks.
There are adornments that the raven prince wears: a fairy-silver torque around his throat, with black diamonds sparkling darkly where the edges of the torque nearly-but-not-quite meet; a silver ring that pierces the sensitive skin of his left nipple; and a black diamond and fairy-silver ring upon the index finger of his right hand.
The flapping shadows materialize at the edges of the breaths of each piece of paper that lands and his silent steps carry him forward toward his king. "Shall I save you from bureaucracy, my king?" There is amusement on his voice, though it is subtle. The once sarcastic thrum of a too-smart boy has become the bemusement of a young man, now nine-and-ten.
His features are as fine as your own; his father's features and his mother's, combining in him to give him that radiant beauty that makes rooms go silent and turn to him when he enters. He ignores such adulation; it is his due, of course, but worth little. One never values that which one hasn't got to work for.
You arrive, and he starts slightly, turning towards you with a quizzically cocked eyebrow. Almost, he does not recognize you. Almost. Almost, but not quite...
Duw. What devil is this, tormenting me with fractured mirrors? My brother and my uncle, made flesh! When did he get here? When the hell did he turn into this? His eyes widen, emerald glinting as he rises to his feet with a slow heaviness. No detail is overlooked; from tattoos to shirtlessness to piercing, he eyes you with reaction held in check to keep you from seeing it, from noticing his surprise, the prickle of lust and of anticipation that briefly rips in his belly and along his spine. It is difficult for him to not react, but he has learned; learned, at least, how to hide it better.
"If only you could," Gwilym answers you, freeing the back of the chair from the grip of a hand. He rubs his eyes, shakes his head like a wolf confused by shadow. "Bah," he drolls, "I'm seeing things. Thought for a moment I saw someone other than you." And he does not open his eyes to look at you, counting silently to ten. "Tell me what's going on, Aeron. What's on your mind, and what's supposed to be on mine?"
"Is it not bad enough that I have a twin? Must there be another me?" Say it is not so, his eyes echo. There is the spirit of a smile, a mirage. It is there, as subtle as a feather against the air. It drifts in a slant. And he is beautiful, haunting. The tall figure of the raven prince folds against the air, splitting it as he moves toward your desk. He looks at you -- does he notice? -- and he takes a seat. The shadow armor, muscled shade, makes not a sound.
"I know how suspicious the air becomes when it has not heard the sound of my voice," comes the smooth intonation of that deepened sound. His right hand plucks the air and there is the picture of a shadow sky -- no, not sky, but air so filled with birds that the blue has been blocked by them. In the midst of that, a figure much like his. But it is not him.
"My brother has taken the Eastern Fringe. The frontier is being held. He plans to throw a party, of course." There is the old familiar twist of his lips. Aeron looks at you, his gaze fixing. There is such ...focus. "He and I will fortify it over the next several months. There was a great deal of debris, detritus, destruction. But you'll be happy to know that the nine-headed beast of Chaos was slain."
There is energy, a shiver on the air, against the base of his spine. He recognizes it. It is called thrill. It is dark. It is delightful. A dark red eyebrow lifts in consideration of it, as if he had just sipped upon a fine wine. His motions are slow; there is thought behind each one of them and behind everything he does. Aeron is nothing if not deliberate.
"I hope it is as you wished, my king. You know how we like to please you." He chuckles quietly. "And ourselves." Tilting his head, and keeping a portion of his attention on you, Aeron's gaze drifts upward. "Shall we have a drink to our success? A glass of fig and mandrake wine should do nicely." A powerful drink for one so young...
"It is never easy being a twin. Prince or otherwise." Gwilym speaks from the heart, chuckling as he turns away from you, glancing only briefly over his shoulder. Colour rushes into his face all the same, and he looks away from you again, kicking papers out of his way. "It's best addressed with a bit of obliviousness, oes?"
He needs a drink. He feels as if someone's hit him square between the eyes with a mallet, only without the pain. From somewhere through the shadows, he dredges a bottle, pulling it open without any trouble. Brandy. It is tipped back for a long swallow, and he exhales fumes which could become fire without much provocation at all. "Good on him, then," he mutters. "We hold the north, the west, the east, then. Chaos can go to Hell." Literally.
Gwilym turns, spins on a silent heel suddenly, staring at you. "Fig and mandrake," he says slowly. "Interesting idea." He is being so gruff, clinging to his crown as if for his life. It would be wrong, to let himself think of what he is thinking. Thoughts of his mouth, tugging on that silver ring, your hands in his hair. Other thoughts as well, which have his belly tightening for a moment before he looks away. "Bah, king," he mutters. "Drink to success. Well, why not. I am avoiding paperwork, after all." He waves a hand; the brandy vanishes. "Bit young for fig and mandrake, though, aren't you?"
He remembers mandrake of a different sort; of spying on his brother in younger, wilder days. His brother, and his brother's lover, with mandrake oil smoothed over glowing young flesh. He remembers jealousy, feels the brief ache. I will always want what I should not want. Aloud, all he says is, "If you want to drink with old men..."
A raven has a keen sense for carrion. And when an animal is fighting in the throes, it causes corvine eyes to gleam. Your resistance is perfumed. Your fight-and-flight an aphrodisiac. Aeron's attention becomes singularly fixed. Wherever you move, it follows you.
His mouth quirks, a smoothening trajectory of a smile taking shape. "I have built up a tolerance to mandrake over the years. I shall not, at the first sip, become a trembling wreck," Aeron murmurs. It is voiced as the simple fact it is. "Allow me, my king." As you taught him now some four years prior, Aeron reaches into the shadows and withdraws a dark and dusty bottle. Unfolding himself from his seat, the raven prince stands. He is several inches taller than his own father. He has half a inch on the High King.
Dark eyes lifting to you, his hand sweeps against your desk, knocking the remaining paperwork to the floor. "There, you are rescued." Bureaucracy knocked on its ass and onto the floor. "As for old men, isn't experience the point of this all? I should rather drink fig and mandrake wine with a man of experience. Lesser men than kings do not interest me, I fear."
He pours the dark and fragrant wine into the two obsidian cups that appear as the last of your papers drift to your floor. His gaze still on you, Aeron takes one of the cups and sets it before you. Checkmate. And his mouth forms a smile. It is not the summer smile of your brother; it is not the comet smile of his brother (and his father before him). The curve of it is ...quite different. Haunting; like you have seen it before. The ephemeral smile of visions and dreams.
"To your health... to your wealth..." the toast of a raven prince to a king of thieves.
He is watching you, wary of his own instincts, smirking reluctantly as you do to his paperwork what he is silently wishing (and not wishing) that you would do to him. "You must be running out of a social life, then," Gwilym drawls, "if only kings interest you. Though I suppose there's something to be said to sticking with family. You know where you stand, with them."
Sticking with family. There is that brief pang in his eyes; he has done that before, hasn't he? And look where it's gotten him. More alone than he was before. Gwilym moves forward with sudden speed and grace, picking up the cup. He watches you, expression obscure, taking you in as he glances down into his cup again. I do not want to dream. I should not allow myself even temptation. "You always come here shirtless, by the by, and I'm just oblivious to the little details?"
His own joke cracks him up. You see smile echo, lighting up his eyes for a moment; the energy remains caged, but a little of it escapes, lightening his mood. He lifts his cup to your toast. "Diolch," Gwilym murmurs, taking a swallow. "...Bloody hell, that shite burns going down the first sip. I'd forgotten."
There are many things he has forgotten. And things he is remembering, as well. What I have been looking for - I do not want to remember that. Best that door stay locked, oes? I can pound myself into someone's arse later and escape memories and dreams. I should be good. Good, Gwi, the opposite of evil, oes?
"Congratulate Bran for me," Gwilym murmurs, gaze dropping to his cup, color heightened again. One lopsided lock of hair is threatening his vision; he ignores it. "And the same to you, oes? I suppose you're going to hit me up for a raise any day now."
"Do I?" The topic of his shirtlessness is what he lands upon, the talons of his inquisitive mind gripping it. And your notice of it. For a moment, Aeron seems honestly intrigued. What could it mean? But then he grins, lifting the obsidian cup to his mouth for the first swallow of the potent drink. It burns, and then it washes through him with sudden, flushing heat. But he does not twitch as most would do -- actually, most would drop the cup and to their knees.
And he does not sip it. He drinks it as if it were nothing but beer.
Lowering the cup to the desk, more than half of it gone, Aeron gives his weight to the desk, a hip resting against the edge of it. "I will pass along your praise, though not too much. Bran is best when not overly praised. As for a raise?" Aeron chuckles, a deep sound in his throat, and then he is moving from the side of your desk to brush his way past you. Standing at your side, he dips his head: "Money is far too easy, nephew-king." His voice is a hush, speaking conspiracy between you two, you two alone.
"Yes, there is something to be said for family," his voice continues in a hush. He turns his head, his dark green eyes looking into your own. Dark red lashes, a russet brown, lower in a sweep. "And something to be said for the admiration of kings. I believe we understand one another."
Do we not?
Aeron moves, crossing behind you to circle the desk. He takes up his cup and he circles the desk again, coming back around toward you. He is the raven that circles the head of the Holly King. He is your sentinel, your rook. Your familiar, in more ways than one. He finishes the first of the fig and mandrake, and he sets his empty cup in front of you.
"Your place... in the Middle of All Things..." He has seen it, he guarded it in his apprenticeship. Aeron reaches into the air, his fingers grabbing hold of he insubstantial and pulling it back like a heavy curtain. Your sanctum is revealed. It is a place beyond Place; out of Time. Not even your palaces can boast that.
"The reward I ask is my king's attention..."
Your brother-nephew swallows but does not drink as if it were beer. No, he drinks it as if it were brandy - which isn't much better, the way he goes through his brandy. "Bah. Nephew," Gwilym mutters at you. His cheeks darken, emerald gaze tracking you as he sets his cup aside. "I'm older than you'll ever be."
It is a weak defense; he knows it, you know it, and he picks his cup up again, drinking, setting it down once more. And you are on the move, and he eyes you as warily as if you might punch him. You Are Up To Something, his eyes say. And he isn't sure how he feels about that.
Defenses are peeling away in places, held up with thumbtacks in others. His chin lifts a little, and then he is visibly surprised. What you mention is not what he expected you to say. Attention? You can't mean - can you?
"We can go there, if that's what you like," Gwilym agrees, cautiously. The goblet's plucked up to his lips, drained; faster by far than ordinarily he would. He moves forward - rapidly. Hurriedly. And turns to eye you again. What strange creature are you...?
"Oes," your uncle-brother says blithely, "...you will always been older than I, my king. One day, when you forget to remind me, I will remind you." Aeron holds the cloth of shadows, that heavy curtain separating one reality from another, for you as you pass. He lets it fall heavily behind him, stepping into the private corridors of the Holly King's inner sanctum. He has not been here since he was sixteen.
It was an educational experience, to be sure...
Aeron smiles as he follows you. There is a cool breeze, and suddenly there is a strong and powerful raven on your shoulder. He has perched there even in battle, but there is a difference to the grip of talons now. Pushing off of you, the raven lifts, gliding and sailing on the air ahead of you. He lands upon the post at the side of a high-backed chair. The air shimmers not with brightness but with shadow. Aeron stands, clothed even as he was (or was not) before.
His fingers uncurl from the rounded crown of the chair's post and he pours another glass of the fig and mandrake wine for himself. "A refresh, my king?" He grins and cuts a look to you. "I won't call you nephew for the rest of the night. I know how it annoys you. When I was four, you should have seen the look on your face." Chuckling, he lifts the cup to his lips and he sips at it.
Raven gleam -- the eyes of the raven prince settle upon a jewel. There is nothing more delicious than the fight. Were you tied up, suspended in leather, he could not enjoy it more. How long shall I watch you twist and turn? Those lips spread in delight as he tips the bottle and pours you another without your asking.
There are no visible bounds, and yet he strums them. He strums them without even touching you. The knots are invisible, but expertly tied.
He is finding it difficult to think. More difficult than it should be, to be sure. Was the drink poisoned? Did he really let his guard down as far as that? He blinks as your raven-weight lands on his shoulder, shivers slightly at the curl of talons. He has never liked it to be easy...
"Oes - oes, by all means, let's have some more." Not that he is given chance to speak; you are pouring already. He is feeling that tightness in his chest, in his belly, and lower besides. Warmth answers in his face, and he has to look away. It is not surprising that there is lust, he reasons with himself. I haven't had anyone in my bed in quite a while, oes? And, after all, he - well, he fits.
It is true; you do. The two halves, his kingly twin's looks to a degree with his own darker appetites. He drags a hand through his hair as he turns to pace away from you, drinking with absentminded thirst. "...You aren't four any more," he gruffly answers you. "And you know my name. Since when have I ever stood on ceremony in private?" He is beginning to get sullen, rising to your bait more than he wants to. He shakes his head, cracking his neck.
"No, Gwilym... I am not..."
He has always taunted you with titles, his, yours: uncle, nephew, king, prince. It has been a game since he could speak. When has he ever called you by your name? It is as if another curtain was lifted, lifted and let drop.
"You have noticed," Aeron chuckles, a resonant sound made far more warm, far more dark with the effects of the mandrake wine. And the air is as tight as you are. He takes another mouthful, he holds it upon his tongue as he sets the obsidian cup aside. And then your raven is at your shoulder again, your shadows commingling. "I have wished for you to notice, Gwilym. I am, after all, your own shadow, created in your own image."
He remains at your side, an arm sliding, an insinuating shadow at your back. "I have gone with you to war. I have picked our dead clean and cleared the way," Aeron's mouth is at your ear. "Shall I not also know the pleasure of your company? Shall I not accompany you to that field as well? The field of linens instead of blood."
He seems more in control of the mandrake than the mandrake does of him, but certainly it might account for the boldness. "I think we ...understand one another," Aeron whispers. "We are like creatures, with like needs."
One hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck. He can feel it growing ruddy, heated as the room seems suddenly too small, too close. He does not look at you; not until you move in. And then he is turning, watching you with disbelief. What is it that you want? You are my brother, blood of my blood. Not my twin; not my Other Self. Why are you here - really?
It is impossible to believe that you could be here for him, himself. That is inconceivable; not worth investing the energy in, the belief. And so you are examined, with the blood rising into his skin, goblet sent to table, hands going to your shoulders.
His grip is tight, though not painful. Gwilym's mouth twists, expression contorts. "Are we? I don't think you know what you're asking, Aeron." His voice is as tight as his grip, for a moment; he releases you, takes a step back, spine drawn straight. "I'm not - sure what you're after. Do you know? You don't know me. If you did..."
If you did, you wouldn't be here...
"I do know, Gwilym Gwyn Garu." He is undaunted, this young man. Emboldened by what? Not even he can truly say. But neither he, nor his rook twin, know anything of surrender, of relenting. The tenacity of the raven is second only to the badger. "Have I not been in your shadows since your wars began? Have I not guarded you in these chambers?"
You withdraw. He does not chase you. "The first I knew of pleasure was not the orgy of female flesh, paid for and bought, that experience, with my brother-in-crime. It was watching you.... here... with your serving blonde. I have watched you... for years longer than you could know. You are a thief without compare, my king, but I am a spy without equal."
He is certain that his sneaking into your sanctum will come at a price. Perhaps you will even banish him here and now. He lifts his chin, uncertain of what you will do or say. You are resisting, and so the raven prince goes back to watching. It's ...apparently...what he is very, very good at. "I know myself. I know what I want. I know who I am. And what I am. If you wish me to leave, of course, I shall certainly do your bidding, Gwilym. But ... I do not think you wish me to leave..."
Aeron ap Davydd takes a perch upon the chair, folding in it, his long legs spreading comfortably, stretching and claiming the space. He is still as stone. It is easy to see how he can simply disappear. But his expressive face holds all his energy, his tremendous energy. Dark green eyes darkly sparkle and the mouth slants a smile, wholly wicked. "If I knew you were going to twist and squirm so much... I would have tied you up before making my request. To enjoy the full effect. What are you worried about? That it is wrong?"
Aeron chuckles at that. "Wrong, brother shadow is what we are." Inclining his head, he smoothens that smile of his. "Hmmm... rather, I think we are right and others are wrong..."
You have watched...
He is silent as the realization of this sinks in. Gwilym tilts his head to the side, a fox watching a raven with lips slightly parted. You might almost see his ears flick, tongue lolling as he takes a moment to think before his jaws snap shut. His mouth closes, and he drags the back of his hand over his mouth. "If that is all you have seen," he mutters it, "then that is hardly the picture."
His face is red; he is blushing, and he looks away from you, dropping into a loose crouch, arm draped over a knee. "What I do with him is not what I am, Aeron." His voice is quiet; not making admission so much as dragging the words out. You do not know what I am. If it were as easy as that - but how much do you know? If you have seen this, what else have you seen...
There is a circling going on, of sorts. He is watching you as you watch him, both of you watching the other in their watching. Emerald eyes seek out your own gaze, his own energy summoned most reluctantly up from the pit of his belly, the pit of his being. You are not as young as I had thought.
"I have never worried about what others think wrong." Gwilym states it simply. It is true; not with his brother-twin, not with his lovers - any of them. "I only worry about what I think is wrong... or what will destroy."
The raven, like a cat, can seem aloof. He listens to you, even as his glimmering gaze lifts to the ceiling. But when his gaze returns to you from on high, that focus is still there, fixed on you as on a targeted jewel. The fox circles; the raven watches. And not so much as a rabbit between you...
"I know you cannot be contained in a walnut shell," Aeron murrs out, his voice gliding quietly over consonants and vowels as he looks at you lazily. "But I can feel the energy around you, Gwilym Gwyn Garu, as I can feel the currents of the air. You empty yourself, but you are never quite filled. Certainly," his lips twitch a smile, "...not as you should be. I am not simply talking physically, but this too has been missing. Your blonde gives you barely what you need to maintain your abilities and holdings. You require an equal."
And that, he must mean, is him.
The raven eyes the fox and leaves the protection of the chair upon which he sits. Aeron unfolds himself from the chair, rising tall and approaching you, as if called by the energy that summons up in your gut. "Have you not longed for that?" his voice issues as he moves, his stride a glide, silent upon the floor. "For completion as much as understanding," an eyebrow lifts in question: Am I not right? Am I not right here? "To be filled. To be properly restored, as is your due. Only shadow can give to shadow, Gwilym."
Standing before you, the raven prince meets your gaze, dark forest to your emerald. "Only shadow can ever understand shadow..." Leaning in, Aeron ap Davydd grazes your mouth with his own. "Only shadow can restore shadow. My energy is what you need. I have known it. I have only waited for you to see it."
How long has he known? How long has he waited?
Longed...
Oh, yes, he has longed, has longed for all his life, it has seemed. He has been completed only seldom, with a desperation and an energy which has threatened to destroy him, destroy others, destroy the foundations of the world he has striven to protect. Each time he has given in to longing, it has come close, but it has not...
Fulfilled. The notion strikes a recurrent chord in him. He looks away for a moment. You are right, of course. He holds things together as he has always done - only barely. High-strung, because of the dissonance of energy sent out but not received in turn; never quite full, always hungry, he prowls with the leanness of near starvation. And it is ignored by him, dismissed, and hence, goes unseen. Save by your corvidae eyes, which as a scavenger surely know how to recognize near death.
"Part of being king means giving up of the self," Gwilym whispers, and he turns to look at you. There is a brief feral note in his gaze. Will you dare to come in reach of him. "I ignore my Self, Aeron. I..."
He goes silent with the hiss of indrawn breath as you brush his mouth with yours. His is reddened, face pale now where before he blushed. He does not dare to move, holding himself tensed, almost shivering. "How much - have you seen?" The question is stilted, and he stares at you.
"Our brother is High King, and yet he has for himself fulfillment. Must he not, in order to do what he must do? And so, too, do you." His mouth is close enough to graze your own again, but only the air is stroked. "If you ignore your Self, how can your kingdom survive?"
If there is one thing a raven knows (other than treasure) it is death. "You are starving," Aeron murmurs at your mouth. "And in front of you the manna, the only thing that can make your belly full." His mouth brushes yours again, the breeze of the motion heavier than the actual touch, and Aeron leans slightly away.
What have I seen?
There is a sound in his throat, a captured chuckle. "Hmm... I could tell you how much I've seen. But ...where's the fun in that?" He has seen enough. How much, he is not prepared to say. A raven holds its own secrets steadfast. "I have watched you, suffice to say, for many...many years. But when I was sixteen, would you have looked? No," he answers his own question. "Too young, so easily dismissed."
His shadow brushes against your own as he leans close. "I had to wait until you could ...would...hear me. And in all that time, you have taken no one, only that blonde who bends so easily at your every aching whim. But it is you who is aching to bend. And no one to fold you for years."
It is not a brush now. It is strength, it is coiling, dark and wicked. It is wickedness, darkness without Evil. It is controlled Chaos. Chaos with purpose. His kiss is the dark matter of the universe; the matter of which you yourself are made.
"You want to be tied to something, to someone worthy, someone with the fortitude to bear you, endure you, better you when needed. And I," Aeron grins in a slant, "I... want to tie you..."
He watches you; the thinnest layer of air possible held between you and himself. His eyes are half closed, as if to open them all the way would be to have that thin, faint defense blown away. "He has his fulfillment. I have never begrudged him it - well, that's a lie." Gwilym exhales, admitting it with a low rasping laugh in the back of his throat. "There was a time when I did - but that is irrelevant."
You are tempting him, and he is tempted. But there is, for all the echo of Power, of longing, wariness, a caution to him. "You will not want a week."
He is convinced of it. Do you see the echo, that lingering black vein in him that is Despair? You will leave; he is certain of it. Even though it has always been him who has walked away, always. You speak of his desires, and there is in his eyes the look, that you see the slam of your point into the gold...
I will destroy you if I let myself go. And I have moved beyond wanting only the physical, the body... He does not move away, despite his fears, his thoughts. Gwilym groans, the sound as if his throat is sore. "Why?" He lets the word free. "Why would you want this?" the answer is important...
"Because, like you, I need it..."
I break apart and coalesce like clouds after lightning. If you crack through me, I will build myself again. If you destroy me, I will only come back. His thoughts fly from his eyes as he looks at you, as he measures your response to his answer.
"There are some plants that cannot survive without fire, even though the fire itself may destroy them. I am such a creature. You... Gwilym... you are such a creature. When we flee that which can complete us, like that plant we cannot grow, we cannot ultimately survive. That is why."
It is as simple as that...
His point has slammed into the gold, and the realization of it lights his eyes. There is a chuckle for the look he understands in your face. "Am I not the bravest creature you have met? Shall you make me a duke now? You think I am going to seduce you and vanish. I see it." Leaning in again, his mouth against your own, "I hear it. I taste it on the air," he breathes. "But what I offer you is not a night, Gwilym. What I offer you is a plan... a partnership. An alliance of shadows. You and I. Now," Aeron leans back, his body slowly unfolding away from you, "... have you not had enough of talking?"
Taking up the bottle of fig and mandrake wine, forgoing the bottle, Aeron ap Davydd takes a long drink, the dark liquid dripping down his chin. With a grin, he wags the bottle at you as he wipes his chin with is hand. "Do you...have anymore questions...?"
He wants to believe you - and at the same time, he is wary, as wary as if there are scars on his skin. He watches you, and as you lean in, for a moment his mouth tugs at your own - as if to keep you from receding again. "I don't know," Gwilym manages to speak, watching you. "You're so damned young."
It is not said as an insult. It is said only as a statement, and he regards you half-quizzically, half with that same old despair. And will you fly away again, after stripping me to bone?
You drink from the bottle, and you remind him of himself, at your age; before he had come to terms with so much of himself. You carry yourself easily in your self-knowledge, whereas he still struggles. His Self has always been his biggest enemy, his biggest struggle indeed...
"Three days," Gwilym says suddenly, straightening slowly to his feet. "I'll give you three days. And - we will see where they lead, oes?" In threes...
He has only ever reveled in himself. He has not merely accepted and acknowledged his desires, his needs, his wants, his very energy, he has celebrated it. He has not judged it. He has embraced it.
"Three days," he sips upon your offer, considering the taste of it. "Very well," Aeron draws out, setting the bottle down on the table. Dark, the mandrake has stained his tongue. Potent, the mandrake has made it go numb and electric both. But it does not slur his speech. It slows it, makes it more purposeful even than it was before.
And his steps are purposeful as he circles around to you again. "You will not think me so young in three days time," it sounds like a boast. It rings like a promise.
The air parts around him, the shadows coalescing and folding outward as he transforms to a murder of ravens. Corvine eyes surround you, and soon a vortex of corvine wings stir the air against your skin. Birds land upon your shoulders, their wings flapping against your back...
And then you feel his arms around you...
You feel his chest at your back...
You feel his breath behind your ear...
"No time to waste," Aeron ap Davydd whispers. "Three days will be but barely sufficient..."
You are at his back, and he needs no mandrake to provoke his shudder at your touch; your hold. He needs no mandrake to make him react, though he is less inured to its effect than you appear to be - he does not turn, but for a moment, he leans against you heavily, almost sagging, eyes closed.
You are suddenly strange. I thought I knew you; knew what to make of you. But I did not. I do not.
I do not...
And now he turns, slowly, his hands going to your hips; Gwilym drops his gaze to your throat, lifting to your eyes, lips parted. I want this, he realizes suddenly; as if prior to this moment, he had not. Duw help me, but I do...
Posted by rowan at February 02, 2008 07:17 PM
