It was a starry-eyed Cerys Davies who left the Black Jack Davy's pub come seven in the morning. She was all pigtails and lazy smiles as she drug her self and her black leather satchel down the stairs from the apartment over the pub. At the foot of the stairs she looked back over her shoulders to the landing above, and to the red-haired, blue-dragoned man who'd held her through the night (and early morning). She'll not see his like again.
     A hand drags through short, fiery hair, the ends mussed this way and that, and the pants he'd put on to walk the waitress to the door are dropped to the floor of his brother's bath. Iowerth douses his face in the steaming water, swallowing some, but swimming in it easily. Open-eyed, he stares through the stream and the mist and wonders where Tiernan is sailing. Where, and with whom.
     He'll shower and return to the castle that's waiting. A night here can seem like twenty there.

     Gwilym wakes around the same time more because of a pressing need for a piss. He's had the mother and father and kittens of the night before, and the morning after has his head threatening to split open like an overripe melon. Oddly, despite the mariachi band playing John Phillips Sousa in his head, he is floating above the pain; transcendent, so that he is calm, finding a lull which the beating of the drums is below. It does not help him to think, but it helps him to exist in a zen state - particularly zen, beyond even the zen of the first morning piss.
     The night before was ... impressive, even for him. The club was packed to the gills. And it started innocently enough - well. Innocence. What's innocence? A girl flirted with him, he drew her in towards him. A smile, a few touches, a few whispered words, and then he guided her towards someone whose energy just glowed with the interest in doing just what she was by then all too willing to do. And he was turning to someone else, by then. That's how it started. And once it started, it grew rapidly, flashing through the club mimetically, whipping people's inhibitions away.
     Even he was a bit impressed, really.
     But by then, Gwilym had figured out how he wanted to spend the rest of his night. A cute, sloe-eyed boy with dark hair tipped with silver, dressed in skin-tight club gear, who'd been inclined to pout when his girlfriend fell in against the Welsh thief. Really, it was just too tempting. How could any thief with an ounce of self-respect resist?
     A few accidental touches, then backing away - casual stuff. Who me? Oh, I like girls, see the rack on that one? Here, have another drink. Have several. A few more 'accidental' touches, another drink - well, time to let some of this out like the good Lord'd want. Coming? Let him get a good look, and then out to the bar again. By then, half the club's going at it. Here, have another shot for the road, but we'd better get going before the police arrive, mate - her? Oh, don't worry about her, she'll be fine. Besides, didn't you say something about wanting to see me outside in the alley? Nah, nah, I know you didn't mean it, but let's get out there all the same.
     In the alley, a touch led to pushing the pretty club boy up against the wall and kissing him forcefully. Stating the obvious, of course. A hard-on all of his own - for me? you totally should have. Let's go back to your place, mm?
     The rest of the night was the sort of night which would have been censored by more than just the Hayes Act. Gwilym enjoyed himself thoroughly; the club boy (Allan, but who's keeping track?) did too, but with rather more astonishment. He's only just stirring as Gwilym's pulling his clothes on; he's only half out of the bed (he'll be having trouble sitting down, to say nothing of walking) as the front door closes on your brother's leather-encased back.
     The sun is shining, but he does not feel virtuous. Nor does he feel particularly lacking in virtue, despite the deeds of the night before. His problem, instead, is how little he feels. Empty. Lacking in meaning. Lacking in center. It was fun, but that's about as much as he'd say - to anyone other than you. To you, he might say more. Brawd, you awake? Feel up for breakfast?

     Awake and showered. I'm at the flat. Might as well eat before I return to my ministers. Shall I order up two rounds of the traditional? Beans and mash, of course! With egg and a tomato.

     By the time the news reached the ears of Davydd ap Owain, it was already time for him to head back into the crypt. So to speak. It made the evening news, as the arrest of 72 people for acts of public lewdness will do in gossip-hungry London, and with the cresting of the king over the city like a wave of light and... apparently orgies... already causing a stir, Davydd had the sneaking suspicion that one, if not more, of his children were to blame.
     So, he has forced himself to stay awake. That's bound to make him cranky, and skirting the bits of light thudding on the gallery floor, Davydd slips into Powis Castle in broad daylight, hugging the shadows and already grousing.
     They wouldn't know discretion if it invited itself to their house for dinner, brought a bottle of wine and shagged the missus.
     It's time for a meeting of the minds...
     Into the precious minds of his precious child and grandchild, comes a sudden, and particularly for the time of day, unexpected voice. Papa. I need to see the both of you in Powis. Don't make me come to London in my asbestos suit to find you. I know you're there. Meet me in my room. We need to talk.

     Well, this can't possibly be good. Iowerth draws in a breath. Though he is High King and recognized by those in the ethereal kingdoms of fairyland and the British Isles alike (by those who've responded at least), there is one voice to which he must harken.
     Of course, father. I am on my way. Were you standing nearby, Iowerth would shoot you a complicit look. Which one of us did what he's going to chew us out about?

     Silence, from another part of London. That would be the Ah, shite reaction as Gwilym freezes for a moment. Old habits - and instincts - die hard.
     Oes, coming, papa. We'll be there shortly.
     The look would be met with a deadpan one with the knowledge of his own guilt underneath it. The question now is, how much trouble is he in, and how much of it can he talk his way out of, if any?

     By the time you both arrive, breakfast is laid out, tea is steeping, and coffee is being poured in one cup courtesy of a French press. He'd complain about the French, but the press makes outstanding coffee. And though his appearance is hardly regal -- he is dressed in knit lounge pants, tee shirt, and a robe -- power sits on his shoulders anyway. And Age. And Time.
     Davydd ap Owain is taking a seat in one of the comfortable antiques, with a bun shoved in his mouth -- anchored by distended fangs -- and the coffee cradled in his grasp. He is pale, otherworldly, and most assuredly undead, as the shimmering dark green eyes and pale skin profess. He is not human now, nor does he wear the trappings of such. Those niceties fall by the wayside when he has to use his stamina to keep himself conscious.
     The bun is set aside and he's lighting a cigarette. His skin almost reflects light. And the artifice of breathing in smoke is shown for the lie it is. Davydd stares forward as you enter, then waves you both to take a seat nearby and have some of the food -- that's no illusion -- someone's prepared.
     "Your majesty," he addresses Iowerth, "...if you would sit. You as well, Lord Mischief," he slants a look to you. It is better when he's looking at your brother -- your brother no doubt feels likewise. "Before I... tell you the... whole of what's on my mind," the craggy-voiced Cymri announces, "... I ... just want to know if ...either of you had anything to do with the news reports at about four a-m. Oh, and help yourself to the food. From what I heard and what I suspect, at least one of you has to have a raging appetite." He looks to each of you in turn. "Sate my curiosity."

     Iowerth takes a seat to the left, not yet reaching for the food or drink. He looks puzzled -- he hasn't seen the news -- and he glances to Gwilym. Do you know what he's talking about? "I don't want to play the ignorance card, da, but.... I don't know what you mean. Honestly."

     Ouch. Burn. Gwilym keeps a poker face - he has one of the best - but there are signals, surely, between twins, which makes it plain that Lord Mischief knows exactly what his grandfather is speaking about. But he doesn't say so - not immediately. He has to figure out how he's going to spin it - if he even can.
     "Diolch, but I'm not hungry," Gwilym says politely. "I was sacked out at a mate's house til seven this morning. We got there around probably two-thirty or three, we'd had a few drinks so I'm not sure when exactly."
     It's the truth. It's just not the entire truth. And it isn't as if he'd been setting out to cause the biggest public orgy and resulting stream of arrests since the late 60s or early 70s! It just - happened that way. But loyalty to his brother prompts him to add, "Io wasn't with me. He spent the night at Davy's."

     And unfortunately, Gwilym has attracted the attention of the elder dragon, and draconic he is with the curved fangs. "I will get to Iowerth in a moment. You didn't really answer the question, Gwilym." He pauses, thumb teasing the end of the cigarette (not the burning end, Christ no), as he settles back in the chair. "Don't play me, boyo. I'm not a game. I asked a simple question. Did either of you have anything to do with the arrests this morning. If I have to pull the information from your brain, son, I'll do it. I'm trying to give you the opportunity to be honest with me. Maybe you don't see the importance of that yet." Davydd cocks his head slightly to the side. "I'll give you a moment to think it through."
     And in the meantime...
     The look Davydd gives Iowerth is more than a little stern. "Do you recall our agreement, Io." He pauses. "You were not to cross into the Material Realm. Not now, not yet. Do you... even realize what it does when the High King leaves the ethereal realm for a hot time in the city? Do you want to know how other people see you? Or... more to the point, how other creatures see you? Have you ever stared directly into a lighthouse lamp or straight into the sun? Now, put yourself in a dark city street and flood it with light. Where you go, you bring the illumination of magic and of possibility with you. And you set the entire goddamned city on fire. My phone rang all night. Fairies, vampires, wolves, shivering nuns -- you name it, they rang me."
     Exhaling with the sudden need to control the tone of his voice -- and the words out of his mouth -- Davydd sits forward, looking between both of you. "You are the sun, Iowerth. And you," he looks to Gwilym, "... are the sun in eclipse. You think you move here without anyone noticing? You're wrong. You think what you do is meaningless here, doesn't have an impact. You're just...what... blowing off steam in the pub, right? That's not how the Court of the Silver Tree sees it. That's not how the demons of Nightmares see it. For you, there is no ... just going to go to Davy's to get a Guinness. I'm sorry, son, but your time here has ended."
     Settling back again, puffing on the cigarette a moment or two before choking it to death, one last tendril of smoke gasping upwards, Davydd looks to Gwilym. "Are you ready now?"

     Iowerth frowns a little. Not because he can't return to earth, but because so new in his responsibilities he made an error in judgment. "I am sorry, da," he murmurs. "I... wasn't thinking about that." He sighs.

     "I know," Davydd notes, his gaze remaining on his grandson as he answers his son. "This little conversation is just to ... get you thinking about it. Now you remember."

     There isn't an awful lot to be said to this. Gwilym listens, however reluctantly, still maintaining that poker face. There's a little part of him, deep down, which is tempted to answer - fine, pull it from my brain, but don't blame me if you don't like what you find - but he isn't quite that suicidal. So, instead, he doesn't.
     "I was at a club." Pause. "Things got a little out of hand." Pause. "I did not have sex in public, and I left before the police were called."
     And that is almost entirely the truth. It only leaves out who he went home with, and for what purpose. He remains sitting upright, still ignoring the food, voice steady. "I'm sorry if I caused trouble. It wasn't my intention."
     His instincts make him want to open his mouth to leap to protect his brother. But that, he can't do. Instead, Gwilym turns inwards.

     "That's all I wanted to know. Next time I ask you something, Gwilym, tell me the truth. I'm going to say this until I go as blue in the face as I am on the balls. Until you both hear me. Discretion. Think about what you do. This isn't a world where magic exists on every corner, and what you do, no matter how trivial it may seem at the time, can have lasting effects on those around you. Am I saying never to use your abilities here? No... I'm not saying that. Be judicious in how you use them, Gwilym. Think. That's all I ask. You're powerful. I think you forget that."
     Looking at the food, Davydd almost appears queasy. He wrinkles his nose and takes up the cup of coffee. "After last night, you should fucking remember it." He laughs suddenly, pointed teeth flashing. "I won't tell your mother," he offers in an aside. "I'll blame it on Rhodri if she asks."
     Dark green eyes shift back to his son. Iowerth has poured himself a cup of tea and appears thoughtful. "I have spoken with the duke of the court. Well, one of them," he rolls his eyes. "And told him you would not be making a habit of it. Clocks can't keep their time around you, boyo." Smirking, he shakes his head. "You haven't even had time to adjust to what it's done to you yet. You think it was only political."
     Leaning forward with a groan in the back of his throat, Davydd sets his coffee cup down and sighs. "I'm going to head to bed. Eat, get rid of this food." Standing, he claps Gwilym on the shoulder and gives him a rough kneading. "Stop looking so sullen, Sultan of Sin."
     Glancing to Iowerth, his hand still on Gwilym, Davydd gives his head a half bow. "Good health, your majesty."

     "Good health on you, Davydd ap Owain," Iowerth smirks, sitting back with his cuppa. He glances to his brother, lifting his eyebrows. His brother's still in the grasp of The Beast.
     With another grab and a good pat on Gwilym's back, Davydd pushes off toward the staircase that leads to his bedroom proper. Iowerth watches him go. "Night, da... " His mouth twists as he looks to his brother. Remind me not to wake him up. Ever.

     "Oes, papa." He isn't quite relaxing just yet. He is still knotted in and around himself. For one thing, he is suddenly realizing just how many secrets he is keeping from his grandfather.
     How many...
     Well, there's the homosexuality, for one...
     The homosexuality with another vampire, for two...
     Running away to join the circus is sounding better and better. Gwilym does allow himself to exhale slowly, ducking his head. "Sleep well, papa. We'll do something with the food." Even if he is still not very hungry. His head is still threatening to split open; and now it is harder to ignore. He watches his grandfather climb the stairs from under lowered eyebrows. It's making me rethink who I've been seeing. If he's like this...

     Those who shouldn't be awake during the day are probably worse for wear when they are. I ... haven't seen him make a special point of it before. He looks to you. It was more for my case than yours. He just didn't like you skirting the answer. If you'd just said 'yeah, it was me, papa' he'd probably have smirked and moved on. But... he's right either way.
     He sips at the tea. And Iowerth can't help himself. He's reach for a turnover. Why should his mood affect who you are seeing? If he is like this about what you consider trivial, you mean, what will he think about Iovis? I don't think you can live your life that way, Gwilym. It's yours, not papa's. I wouldn't lie to him if he asks. But I wouldn't volunteer it. You can always claim ignorance.

     I got 72 people arrested and made national news. Maybe more than national news. I think it wasn't just on your behalf.
     Gwilym is not buying it, or not entirely. He reaches for the juice - slowly, still. Who said it has anything to do with Iovis being male? No, I just think if that's what he's like when he's woken up, I'm not sure I should be there. What if I have to wake him up one day?
     Liquid tinkles as it's poured, but he makes no move to drink it yet. Instead, he tilts his head to look at you. I am a bad, bad man, Io. You're better off here than I am.

     Iowerth looks to the trail of his father's disappearance, then to you with an upraised brow. No... I am not better off here. I'm not even sure what you mean by that. He settles back, tearing the pastry into halves, eating a portion of it -- until he realizes it's apple. With a smirk, he sets the torn pieces on the plate to be ignored. That, he must resist. I would endeavor not to wake Iovis, then. He could be a great deal less civilized than papa. Even if he loves you. If you do have to wake him one morning... I'd do it with a long stick...
     "I can't believe you started an orgy in a club." He laughs now, quietly, but aloud. "Tell me you have at least something of a hangover." Iowerth finishes his tea. He glances out the nearby window, making note of the time. My night wasn't quite as crowded. I did, however, have a little company. Cerys. The corners of his mouth tick upward. I'll probably get a call from your father next.

     "My head wants to crack open. I think something is hatching in it." Gwilym doesn't smile. He's not sure he isn't serious. That would almost make sense, wouldn't it? Develop something by hatching it out of his skull? Isn't there a universe-creation myth that works like that?
     I am a very bad man. Not so much for the orgy. I didn't lie. I didn't even get naked in public. Instead, the girl who started it - who I started it with - well, she had a boyfriend. He was rather put out. I, there is a mental suggestion of a shrug, don't think you could say that I seduced him so much as that I had my way with him. I may have shattered his sexuality.
     He is not bragging. He is not really remorseful - and that has him worried. He should be less matter of fact about it. Gwilym looks at the pastry questioningly; only gradually does it occur to him as to why you are putting it aside. One eyebrow cocks upwards, and he smirks at you. What? You don't want to spend the day in an abandoned haze? Sounds preferable to the present turn of events to me. Anyway, who has said anything about love? We like each other. Neither of us has brought ... that ... into it. That word.
     Love. He would look at you oddly, except he thinks turning his head too sharply would make it fall off. How was she? Cerys, I mean. Was she fun? Bouncy?

     That wasn't my point. I didn't say you did. I meant that I wouldn't wake him even if he did love you. I wasn't saying anything about anything. He chuckles softly, raising both hands. His eyebrows follow their lead. Ah... no. I think with Tiernan off to sea and you with a splitting headache, perhaps hatching the anti-christ from your brain after a night of sin, the worst thing I could do would be to head into an abandoned haze. I think da is right about one thing... I haven't adjusted yet to what I am... now's not the time for bludgeoning forward.
     Rolling his head against his shoulder, Iowerth looks to you. Unless, of course, you wanted to join me in it. That... I could... entertain. But... for now I think I should get back to the astral. With a soft exhalation, Iowerth is unfolding himself from the chair. His expression is amused suddenly.
     Cerys was very... bouncy. And ... exuberant. Quite delightful. If I were going to keep mortal mistresses, she'd be one of them. But... I have enough trouble as it is...

     Do you think I'd suggest it if I weren't? Gwilym does turn his head at that, smirking at you with a roll of emerald eyes. Besides, I ... don't think either of us should explore apples with other people. For one, most people couldn't handle it, and for two ... it could be an exploitable weakness. Add apple essence to something strongly flavoured - unless we can be sure that it's the apple flavor, our knowledge of apples that triggers it, which seems unlikely ...
     He leaves it hanging. You will know what he is driving at. Gwilym draws a fingertip around the rim of his glass of juice, then sets it down, untasted. "Oes, unless you plan on having a harem. Though you could talk to da about importing her, if you really wanted."
     Such is the way his mind works. Gwilym stands up as well, looking over at you for a moment. If you're going back... let me know if you need anything. I don't know what I'm doing. Slinking off into the shadows again, I suppose.

     Your brother gives you a look of bland amusement. "I thought you were coming with me," he murmurs. "This isn't the only place to get a good apple pastry..." The offer that was half proferred is more than half accepted in the look he gives you. Reaching down, Iowerth takes a corner of that apple turnover and pops it into his mouth.
     Don't despair, brawd. You don't have to know what you're doing every minute of the day... come on... come with me... you'll feel ...much better...

     It is temptation. And when has he ever been one to walk away from temptation?
     Especially the ones he doesn't want to walk away from. It isn't as if he can say he isn't in the mood...
     "I suppose I can," Gwilym says aloud, in that easy tone of voice which you know hides such a multitude of sins. Literally. "It isn't as if I had any other plans."
     And besides... He smirks at you, eyes glinting as he makes himself actually peel his eyelids open.
     What's the point of sinning if I don't get to tell someone the details ...

Posted by rowan at January 19, 2007 07:28 PM