It is the dead of winter. I am coming closer to you, and already, I miss you. And already, it is a distant ache. Am I detaching to protect myself, I wonder? Or is this ... another machination of fate...
     He does not approach in shadow this time. He does not invade your space, your home, but comes to the front doors in kingly garb. As he was dressed to see his brother, so is he dressed now, standing tall and as if the very air did not touch him.
     He is beautiful, but he is as remote as a stretch of pristine and distant island coast. And he seems not to see anything except what is in front of him.
     Each footstep falls as a silent hammer, your lover, your other in his marching stride. Gwilym does not pause to pass the time of day, but only to make inquiry. "Is he at home? If so, where..."
     He is seeking you...

     The doors of the villa open widely for you, now as ever. Your manner, your dress, both these things are noted by the steward, the head servant of the house. "He is, Prince Gwilym," the steward says. "He is in his study."
     The study is on the ground floor of the villa, past the atrium, the open-air courtyard in the center of the house, both living room and garden, and toward the front, or what is the front of the house to visitors, with a view of the ocean. The drapes are drawn back on the floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing a view of the darkening sea.
     Candles are lit and a fire is in the hearth. Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos sits on the great leather sofa. He is looking over papers, manifests - the papers are nearby. In actuality, he is more considering the brandy in his glass.
     You have been gone for several days, several more nights. That is not so strange. But no word? That is strange. But he has continued on, there was much to do. He could not wait for you to appear. Prospero sips at the brandy, his right leg resting on the sofa, his left leg stretched out, his heel on the floor. He is clothed simply. He was not planning on leaving tonight. He wears a white silk shirt, untied and unbound, over deer-suede trousers, a light fawn in color.
     Glancing over a paper - a list of provisions for the journey to Catalonia - Prospero reaches over to take up his glass again and sip at a little bit of liquid sun.

     He appears in the doorway, looking at you as if he has risen from that shadowed sea. There is none of his former bombast, the energy which drove all before him in the effort to escape into madness and therein find peace. That has all faded; and now, there he stands, lined in thought and resignation, with none of his mixed emotions visible upon the surface.
     "I am sorry for making you wonder," Gwilym tells you quietly, as he steps inside. He knows you wondered. Who would not? "I ... wish that it could have been more convenient, but it was not. Fate, you see. It decided to lay a hand on my shoulder."
     And knock me over the head and leave me in a locked toolshed to perish...

     He looks up as he hears your voice. He did not hear you arrive, nor your steps on the marble. But you are the Thief of Thieves, after all. Prospero lifts an eyebrow in surprise as he sets the paperwork aside. His mouth starts to make a smile of greeting, but then he looks at you. How different you are.
     Setting his glass aside as well, Prospero rises. "Fate is rarely convenient, amigo. But it is good to see you. You have had your reasons, si? You know I do not question you." And the reasons appear to be very good ones. From the looks of it. "You look... different. Good, of course," he nearly rolls his eyes. As if you could look anything else. "Care for a brandy?"
     Prospero gestures for you to make yourself comfortable. It is your home as well, is it not? There is a distance between you. He feels it. He does not know what to call it, or what has caused it, but he is sure you will explain. He does not speak of the manifests or preparations for Catalonia, not yet.
     "Has something happened, amigo?" It is clear that it has. You know he is not blind. Prospero opens the door for you, and gestures you to...come on out with it.

     Different. Inside and out. And if this gulf could be closed, crossed...
     It is whispered inwards to himself, never allowed to show or betray him. He moves to take the seat once offered, lowering himself heavily.
     "It is complicated," Gwilym murmurs, looking to you. It hurts him to look at you, and that too is tucked away; looking elsewhere is not a luxury he is prepared to permit himself. "I will summarize. I have ascended, Prospero. Fate decided that it was time, and the power moved through me, taking charge of whatever vessel at hand. And in ascending, there was change. I am the Holly King; my grandfather is no more in that role."
     Few words, where before a multitude would have sprung up and not been enough. He says it, and he waits for you to react, to question, to comment. But there is that distance still.

     He retakes his seat and retakes his glass. He is silent for many moments, both listening to you -- he gives you the whole of his attention -- and looking at you, at your aspect, your demeanor. You are coiled, not tightly wound as before, but rather coiled like a king cobra, aware of your power, not yet calling it to the surface. Prospero is astonished.
     And you have never seen him astonished by anything.
     "The Holly King...a king now. It explains ...much." Your absence, your distance now. He wonders what it means, he wonders what it signifies, he wonders what it changes. He smiles a little, "Congratulations?" Prospero offers.
     Taking a swallow of the brandy, he looks to you more seriously. "It does change our plans, I imagine. Shall I cancel the journey to Catalonia? What does your ... ascension mean, do you yet know?"

     He closes his eyes for a moment. And here's the rub. "I will have to take up my duties as king, Prospero," Gwilym answers you quietly. He reopens his eyes; they are no less emerald, no less brilliant than before. But now, his power is not diffuse but gathered; it is all there to be seen in shadowy substance.
     "I will be gathering my forces and marching to the central kingdom which is mine now, by right of conquest. It is far inland from here, over dangerous terrain. The valley is mountainous, and the people - what is left of them - downtrodden, easily falling into shadow." Gwilym explains it simply, painting with his words. His cloak flickers at the edges where light meets it; the juxtaposition of light and shadow. "It is there that I am needed; and for a time, I will have no leisure, Prospero. It ... has changed my life."

     He inclines his head, and then he realizes what you mean. His expression becomes as withdrawn as yours. His gaze lowers and then, the tiger's eye jasper fixes on you. "I am... very sorry for myself, but ...I understand what duty is. I am a prince, the son and brother of a king." He nods once. He finishes his brandy in silence and then he stands. "I will cancel the arrangements," he continues quietly. "And... as for the rest...we...can handle matters as you wish. I ...respect you, Gwilym Gwyn Garu. And I would be the last to stand as obstacle to your destiny."
     He is upset, nevertheless. In quiet, he crosses to the bottle of brandy. He pours a healthy glass of the amber liquid.
     "It has changed my life... but that is the nature of Fate," Prospero whispers. He sips at the drink and he crosses over to the window. "So... what is it, King Gwilym, that you wish of Prospero Maximo del Cielo de los Santos?"

     He dips his head downwards as you speak, his eyes in shadow. You are upset; as is he. He is as aware of your upset as if you had reacted in opposite fashion than you in fact have; as if you have shouted or trembled, shown anger or disdain or shown your hurt. And he reacts, within himself, containing himself.
     The boy stood upon the burning deck, oes? Already, it grows insubstantial. I slip through your fingers, and you through mine, leaving us both only with regret. I wish that one or the other or both of us could shout, could say 'no - no, this will not
be', and tell Fate to piss off, and find a way to make it work. But that is not possible; and you, you and I, we are too smart to pretend. We say our farewells here and now, instead of letting things crumble in a long and drawn-out series of increasingly bitter episodes.
     "The only thing I would ask of you, Prospero, is the one thing you may find it hardest to give," Gwilym answers you, finally, voice quiet. "The only thing I would ask of you is your friendship."
     And it will be lonely, without you...

     He does not look at you for a time. He looks to the sea. But you see his reflection in the glass. You see him look at your reflection in the glass. And though he is upset, and though he will have his own pain, his own regret, his own confusion, his expression softens. "You... have my friendship, your majesty," he says quietly.
     "And my allegiance. I admire you. You... of course... have my friendship. It will be easier... in time. But... we will worry on that in the future." He looks into his glass and then he swallows brandy, a mouthful, a heartful.
     Prospero turns from the view of the sea, but does not yet turn to you. He has his pain. He has his regret. He frowns in his own thoughts. "I... wish you nothing but the best, amigo. Nothing but the best. And success, of course."
     He tips back his head, he finishes the brandy, and he lets it burn. He needs it right now. He refills his glass. "I will... be heading to Catalonia for a while," he murmurs. His fingers tap on the glass. "My parents are expecting me. It will be easier to go than to explain why we will not be there."

     "I understand."
     That is all that he says for a time; and what else is there to say? He draws himself up to his feet, his outlines flickering in firelight as he looks to you for a long, long moment. "You will always have my friendship, Pros," Gwilym finally says, his voice quiet. "Call upon the Holly King in your time of need. He will answer if he is able."
     It is all that he says. He does not wait for your reply; you can see his shadowed reflection in the glass as he turns away. He takes one step to the door.

     "Go in friendship, amigo," he says. Prospero glances back to you. But the moment is too ponderous for words. He finishes another brandy, and he will be deep into the bottle tonight. Tomorrow, he will wake and he will go to the ships as planned.
     But nothing will be as he planned. You will not be there.
     Perhaps in the future he will call upon you. Perhaps in the future, there may be something between you again. He does not think about that now, there is no point in it. That, there is no future in.
     His reflection fades in the glass as he moves from the window, from the view, from the grandeur of the life he had built here. And all its promise seems now like a mirage.

     Another step, with no indication that he has heard you. He moves into shadow, seeming as peaceful and unmoved as when he came in. But you and he both know better, yes? A third step and he is gone...
     Gone from sight, gone from your life...
     Emerging in his suite in his brother's palace, Gwilym falls onto his bed and does not move.

Posted by rowan at November 18, 2007 09:11 PM