Tinsel is everywhere. The twins have tinseled the main family room as if the sparkly bits of foil were, in fact, toilet paper. This is what happens when you leave precocious ten-year old twins in charge of decorating. But that's the way their father wanted it; he'd hear no protestations. Christmas and Yule are for the young. Let 'em have fun.
     Naturally, the staff insisted on more orderly festivity in the formal gallery, ballroom/music room, and the foyer.
     The boys are upstairs sleeping. His wife is likely with her other man. And the lord of the manor is sitting in the family room, the former Great Hall of this old red castle, sitting with a book and a drink.
     Davydd himself is wearing tinsel, a sign of solidarity with his young sons, and he's sitting in a winged back chair with overstuffed cushions -- a very comfy throne, indeed. Apart from the silver tinsel around his neck, he's sporting a cream-colored, handmade sweater, knitted especially for him from the wool of Welsh sheep. Its thick, cable-knit adds bulk to his already mountainous form and no doubt keeps him toasty warm. Paired with that are wool trousers, heathered charcoal and a pair of sturdy leather shoes. On his lap is an open book -- he rarely gets a moment to read these nights! -- and a glass of whisky.
     His fiery, copper hair is thick, wavy, sticking up wherever he or it wants, going this way or that. It reflects burnished in the glow of the nearby fire. He has been quiet the last several nights, as if he were the waning moon, his energy drifting lowly. Not sad, not sorrowful, not in a right funk. Just... quiet. Just... slow.
     He reaches over and takes the glass of whisky, drinking at it as he reads Welsh lyrics from the Thirteenth Century.

     Fiona has been keeping busy; with the family, with the children, with the holiday - with her husbands. Now she is upstairs indeed, with Rhodri, and there is no one awake to disturb the Patriarch, grand as he may or may not be. No one awake...
     None but one, stepping out of deepest shadow and looking as if he has been in the hinterlands is your grandson, the younger of a set. Gwilym has dispelled the armour; you do not need to see that. No one needs to see that. Instead, he is garbed in wool; a long dark coat, dark trousers, a white dress shirt with jacket to match the trousers. Around his throat, a green and gold scarf is tossed, and his hair is mussed as if from snow's falling. The beard - well, the beard's a new addition.
     Gwilym Gwyn Garu grins at you as he steps forward as if just coming in from out of doors. "Papa. Got anything hot to drink?"

     Dark green eyes lift quickly from the pages and the poems and his whisky to see his grandson, the Holly King himself, step in looking like Mister Christmas in Gentleman's Quarterly. He sets aside his book and rises with a bit of a groan. The smile is quick, fleet as a comet as always, and he reaches to shake your hand -- well, pull you into a hug. No handshakes in this family!
     "Good t' see you, don't you look posh." His hand grips your bicep in a chieftain's greeting and he pats it after. "I've gone straight to whisky m'self. I'm cutting out the middle man. Never could abide a bureaucrat. Have a seat, have a seat, mind the tinsel." He rolls his eyes as he takes a seat. "The boys went a bit wild, but ... they're raven spirits, oes? Hard for them to resist the tinsel."
     A selection of warm drinks appear at hand beside the fire. There's mulled wine, spiced cider and brandy, and then brandy and whisky in bottles -- not warm themselves but they can inspire it.
     "Have you talked to your brother? He's put a load of presents under the tree. I'm sure there's a few in there for you. You know how he likes to shop." Davydd looks to you, settling back in his winged back chair. His hands interlace, resting on his cable-knit stomach. His pose, his body language is one of ... ease, really. He's relaxed, your grandfather is, and the weight he'd been carrying around seems a bit lifted. Course, he's also a bit on the slow side, energy wise. Like he's coming back from a bender.
     "You look good," his eyes know, his smile twitches. "Your Majesty."

     "Posh, bah." He rolls it out the way you would. Gwilym grins, shaking his head. "Not yet. I'm going to see Io for New Year's. I miss him, oes? But don't dare tell him that. He'll get a swelled head." He laughs, quietly but uproariously all the same, energy high. It is His Day, after all, isn't it?
     He moves to hug you, warmly and without reservation. The past is in the past, and he allows it to lie there where it belongs. "Whiskey, eh. I'll stick with mulled wine for now. Might move to something stronger later, but as I've only just arrived..."
     Gwilym helps himself, a hand moving up to begin shrugging out of the great coat. "You look good, papa. How've you been, then? Speaking of looking good." He smirks at your use of the title. "You should come see what I'm doing sometime. Don't tell mum, though. She'll worry if you tell her."

     The smile you get is openly conspiratorial. He shall be your partner in crime on this you may be sure. "I won't tell her. I haven't even told her that we've changed places. Course, she's quick. She'll catch on eventually." He doesn't even rise to the old bait and say As soon as she's out from under her other husband. There doesn't seem to be a brooding brewing, of any sort.
     "I'd love t' see it. Let me know, yeah? Whenever you're ready. I've been good, good. A bit tired. Could be the twins, could be the season." But you both know the reason. All his crowns are gone.
     He's no king now, not of any country real or imagined. All his legacies are passed down. There's nothing left to give. He's back to being a mercenary, and it seems to suit him well enough. There's no sorrow lingering at the passing of his crowns. That's what he meant to do, yeah? It's what he was supposed to do.
     Davydd smiles, and it's the look of pride, in himself and in you, and a strange sort of...what is it then? Contentment? Could it be that? "For the first time in... hmm... I don't know since when, a long time at any rate, there's quiet in my head. No fire, no talking trees, no marching bands, no peanut gallery. I think you'll wear it better than I, Gwilym Gwyn Garu. You wear it better than I already, more comfortable. It was yours all along. I was just holding it for you, sir, till you were ready. So," he sniffs a bit and chuckles, looking to the fire. He waves you off before you can even say anything. Never mind me. I'm just an old fool.
     "So," Davydd says again, grinning like lightning. The devils are in his eyes again now that the weight is gone, ".... you got the Hunt at your heels and the wide world before you. Looks like you're on your way, son. If there's anything this servant of yours can do, be sure to let him know."

     He grins at you, an affection in his expression which has entirely forgotten, it seems, the past. "You know - I wouldn't have taken it. It blind-sided me, hit me over the head, dragged me into an alley and had its way with me and made me take it. But it's all right," he gestures expansively, "I forgive it. Just means I've a lot of work to do - a lot of catching up. This will be one of my rare days off for a while, but we'll see how much I can achieve and how fast."
     He swallows some wine, moving to crash down into a chair with the weight of a felled oak, and he grins at you again. "Much love to you, papa, but I don't know that there IS anything, really, except maybe advice now and again. What I need right now is men. You see .. well," he looks an interesting mix of embarrassed and definitely pleased with himself, "I'm going to conquer the Broken Lands."
     Not 'going to try'. Not 'thinking about it'. He is going to do it. He just said so, didn't he?

     You see the old kingly face -- once a princeps, always a princeps -- as you mention conquest. It's not chiding, it's not warning, it's thinking, that face. "You'll need a good force. There's a lot of wild land out there, feral, where brambles turn to Nightmares." He's been there, apparently. "You should talk to the High King. Get him to requisition now, to call up arms now, so they can be ready whenever needed. It's in the interest of the kingdoms to tame that area. You shouldn't receive any political push-back, though that Darkness is going to push back plenty."
     He nods to the rest. He knows you'll call him if you need him.
     "When do you get started? Right after Yule? Father Christmas Strikes Back?" Davydd cackles at that and reaches for his whisky. That was so good, he has to drink to it. Whisky done, he actually gets a bit of the mulled wine for himself. It'll make him more cuddly later, not that there'll be anyone there to notice. He holds the mug and takes a big whiff of the spices. Sitting back with the mug and a satisfied smile,
     "Well, you never would just take the ruddy thing," he chuckles with cheeks made rosy by the warmth of the wine and his own humor. "I kept shoving it at you like the Mob of Rome, and like Julius himself you kept waving me off. No offense, right? But I'm glad to be done with it. I'm glad that my promise to the Three Queens was kept, met, and now is done. Now, I've got to turn my attention to this life, yeah? And not the one that started eight-hundred-some-odd years ago."

     "I'll talk to him at New Year's," he agrees with you, grinning. He isn't worried. It will be a challenge - but he simply isn't worried. Challenges are something he Does. "I've got my men on the move right now, actually. We're encamped, right now, waiting for some other forces to catch up. The closest settlements are ones which I can take with the forces I've got, I believe, without taking too many significant losses. I'll make a break around New Year's to visit Io - it takes me no time to travel, so if the fighting is done with by then, I should be able to take a few hours."
     His voice remains affectionate and warm. Gwilym leans over to you, smirking. "No offense. It - has wrought changes in my life, papa." His smile grows fainter, though remains. "I've broken things off with Pros, for one. And I've a - I guess you could call him my high priest, now. Not Pros; his cousin, believe it or not, though Pros doesn't know, or at least, I haven't told him. And oes, you should pay attention to this one. Put down your burdens, papa. Isn't mum enough of a handful?"

     Davydd rolls his eyes as you mention your mother. "She's much more than I can handle. I'm the first to admit it. And I've come to really appreciate your father. At times I've really wrestled with the whole thing, fought like mad, and I've wanted to strangle him a time or two. I don't like sharing. I've never been particularly good at it. But now? Now I can read a book and have a whisky with a little quiet in my brain. I can actually think. Which is a scary thing, really, considering how long I went without thinking."
     There's a cost to the crown, oes. "You seem okay with it. I suppose there's no point in not being okay with it. I'm sorry to hear that it didn't work out," and by the softness of his tone, you can tell he means it. "But I wouldn't really worry about loneliness." He chuckles suddenly with way too much knowledge. "The Holly King is never really alone, Your Highness. But that'll be for you to figure out and... enjoy as you like." He doesn't say anything about the high priest, but you know he can imagine the point and purpose for that. The grin on his face remains. You sly dog, you.
     "I've every confidence in you, Gwilym. You've always been able to do whatever you've a mind to. And if I didn't think you could tame the Broken Lands, son, I'd tell you straight. I'm just glad I'm still around, yeah? I can watch it and enjoy it from the safe, comfortable distance of my easy chair." He cackles again at that and lifts his mug in toast to you and to his new and far quieter life.
     He's really settling into that quite quickly. He hasn't a clue what it means for him. But it isn't bothering him in the slightest. If anything, he's a bit excited with the uncertainty, with the lightness. His shoulders aren't so weighted down. His mind not so crowded.

     "Must be nice, thinking." He grins at you, shrugging. "I'm all right with it. Once it happened ... well, I was sort of annoyed, but it's funny, innit? All that running, only to end up right here like this. No point fighting it now and - it's not as if it's changed anything. The only thing that's changed, papa, it's in me." Gwilym thumps his chest. "I have purpose now - direction. I always wanted it, I just ... didn't know what to do with myself. I was lost."
     He runs his fingers back through his hair. "Now I'm not lost. As for alone - right now I don't even have time to think about it." Gwilym smirks. "Nothing like riding and marching in full armour to make you too worn out by time for sleep to care much if there's a woman, a man, or a bush next to you provided it hasn't sprouted pointy bits aimed at your kidneys. You have to come and see, though." His eyes light up with easy enthusiasm. "I think I've really got something, papa. And, well," he grins reluctantly, ducking his head, "s'not often I get to show off, oes?"

     He chuckles. You are worldly and child-like all at once. He sees both the king you are and the laughing boy you once were. "I bet you do, son. And I want to see it. Tell me... soon as you're ready... and I'll come look. I wouldn't miss it. As for your mother... she's going to be pretty busy. Well, she's busy now," he smirks and doesn't elaborate. Soon enough she's going to have other things to keep her occupied. You'll probably fly under the radar so long as you don't get hurt."
     Taking another swallow of the wine -- it cools so quickly -- Davydd sits back again and gives you a dear look. "There's no point fighting it, no. You're wise to know that now. Embrace it, rather, oes? Enjoy it, Gwilym. Enjoy your success, your purpose. You'll be all the better at it if you do. That's some advice I can give you straight off. I fought mine tooth-and-nail. And what did it ever get me but heartaches and headaches. No, learn from me, yeah? And do the opposite," Davydd grins in a streak of humor, his smile like a comet lighting his face.
     He finishes the wine and heads back for whisky. Whisky doesn't get tepid. There's nothing worse than tepid spiced wine. "I don't know what my energy will turn toward. I've been a bit sluggish," a sly look to you with a sly grin. "And it's not the alcohol either. Or the cold. Though the cold doesn't help." Davydd exhales. "It's like... hmm... someone took something heavy off my chest. I can breathe now, oes? I'm just waiting to see if another weight'll be added or... if this is the way it'll be. I'll get my energy back soon enough. I should eat," it occurs to him suddenly. "Gah, I'm starvin'. Care for some stuffed pastries? Lamb and beef?"

     He is out of his chair in a shot. "FOOD," Gwilym answers you fervently. "Duw, I feel as if I haven't eaten in a week. Race you to the kitchen," he adds, already on the move. He cheats. But then, the Holly King always cheats; it's part of his charms...

Posted by rowan at January 02, 2008 09:53 PM