Figurines that fall like leaves then disappear, keep calling
     Is it real? Is it real?
     Dark machines that wheeze and breathe then mock the air, appalling
     What is real? What is real?
     This world can really be too much
     I can't take another day
     I guess that I've just had enough
     My mind's slipping far away
     I'm falling out of touch
     Could someone please explain?
     He has been in Venice a short time only, but already he has made an impression on the company for which he's working. It happens, when his mind is given so fully over to a task; and his mind is. Terry Winter, as he's known, already he becomes an engineer of distinction. He has visited several sites; he has made notes and comments, pointed to places on diagrams with the assuredness and ingenuity of genius, inspiration. His future, should he wish it, seems assured.
     But he is not thinking of the future...
     The past looms instead in his mind, making him think nothing of his future...
     His hair has grown a little long, though not yet brushing his collar. Dark curls fall against his forehead and in shaggy locks over his ears. He has exchanged a navy's work clothes for an engineer's; right now, that means dark trousers and a white shirt with dark tie and a black jacket. Nondescript, really; apparently an Englishman, and prone to stopping on bridges to hold the railing and look at the rising waters.
     Io...
     Will I be able to stop thinking of you, I wonder? Will the pain go away? If so, please, deus, let it be soon. I can't sleep nights for knowing that you are gone. If I'd known that the last time I saw you would be the last time I would hold you, the last time I would be held by you, I would have done so much differently. But if I'd known, I wonder, would I have had the nerve to leave...
     I can't eat; the food's lost any flavour it once had had. I can drink, though. But what's the point of getting drunk? It doesn't really do anything to take away the pain. How is it someone who others claim is such a fucking genius could be so stupid...
     I have stayed up late every night, building my 'toys' and then dumping them off rails and bridges by the light of day where and when I can. If I'm caught, I suppose your father will kill me, but I just don't know that I care, anyway. Let the little divers I've made attach themselves to such struts and supports they can find; they will collect silt and sand around them and it will calcify. It isn't much. But I don't see a way of salvaging this city without a little magic, here and there, and it's the only magic I've got.
     He stands on the bridge, hands wrapped around steel as he faces the dawn. The breeze that catches his hair and his tie flap them both back from his face, and with a weary exhale, Tiernan straightens. It's Saturday. What the hell is he supposed to do with a day off? Tiredly, he rubs a hand across his face. "Suppose I'd best be getting breakfast, then..."

     Yesterday night, when all of Venice was sleeping, even those on Lido Island famous for their late nights (being as they all are, the wealthy from other places) were finally in some bed or another, a dark ship pulled quietly into the harbor and docked. At dawn, there were no doubt surprised eyes and faces, marveling at the arrival of either a wondrous replica or a completely revitalized ship -- an old galleon, an eighty-gun Ship of the Line. It flies the flags of Wales first and foremost (green and white with the red dragon snapping in the offshore breeze), with England's Union Jack beneath it and a flag of the City of Venice, with its red background and its golden winged lion flying on a separate mast. A welcomed visitor, it supposes.
     It isn't the only old ship around these parts. One stays permanently fitted in Venice and during the regatta season, all manners of ships old and built to look old return to the city to pantomime the glorious tall-shipped past of the floating city. While it isn't the only vessel, it is the largest and the best fitted of its age, with white sails tucked in and resting. The Draigamore stands proudly at Pier 9, one of her shipmen paying a month's rent to the master of the docks and showing the necessary papers.
     Late last night, a shipman was sent off to find you. He returned empty handed at dawn, having nearly found you twice but just missing you. Not wanting to get picked up for loitering or cause a scene, the modern-clothed shipman simply returned to The Draigamore and delivered his news.
     Dawn found Iowerth still awake...
     And still smarting...
     He had not meant to wound you but to free you to your task. But now, your letter received yesterday, he feels as though he's made a mess of your own adventure. I must set it right, he thinks to himself as he stands near the wheel in his modern white shirt, long-sleeved to hide the markings. Iowerth sips at his coffee (mostly cream and sugar) and sighs. He closes his eyes to feel the breeze of Italy and the Adriatic upon his face and then tips his head back.
     Can we meet? Iowerth Rhudd Draig turns his thoughts to the air, giving them over to the winds. Like messengers on the wings of the many pigeons that live here, those thoughts lift and flutter from Lido Island to the bridge over which you watch the sun rise. I feel I need to apologize. Another stream comes. And then another: And I want to see you.
     If you'll even answer me. Iowerth locks the wheel down and with another exhale carries himself and his coffee to the main deck. It is early morning. Most in Venice have not yet risen. It is Saturday. No one will be in a hurry for anything. Sitting his cup upon the wide siderail, Iowerth looks from the deck of The Draigamore to the view of Venice itself, to Saint Mark's Square right across from him. He can easily see Santa Maria Della Salute from here, with its high white marble dome. Where are you amid all of that, I wonder.

     Set my mind for open sky, but couldn't fly, so sadly
     What am I? What am I?
     Sullen eyes shed teardrop lies then criticize, now laughing
     What is real? What is real?
     It's really all become too much
     I'm not sure what I should feel
     I guess I've finally had enough
     I don't know if this is real
     I'm crashing in and out of touch
     Can anyone please explain?
     He had not noticed the ship. Too mired in his own thoughts, the despairs of his lows so very low, he simply hadn't looked. But now ...
     Now he looks up, startled as colour rises into his face. You? But you are not here; you cannot be here. You are getting married. What are you doing here?
     ...I thought you were trying to find a bride and fight pirates and plan your kingdom. You got all of that out of the way and now it's time for breakfast, so you thought some Venetian coffee would go well? Or picking out crystal for at the wedding table?
     You get a reply; he tries to keep it light, holding the waves of emotion behind the sea-wall of his brain. It is good, he thinks, that you cannot see his face right now; cannot see his eyes. It will take him a few moments to get himself together.
     If you want to see me, you may, of course, but you'll need to give me a bit to put my face on, Tiernan tells you in that light voice. He has cultivate a wry humour that goes over fairly well with the people with whom he's been working. May as well prepare you for your marriage, right? Where would you like me to meet you... where are you...

     You can be angry if you wish. I would remind you that it was you who left me. If anyone has cause of being pissy, it's me. His voice in your head comes with his familiar drawl, that droll tone that says he is both serious and of course completely kidding. I was missing Venetian coffee, but that's not the point...
     I should send up a flair, but would hate to have to deal with the Policia so early in the morning...
     The Draigamor is docked on Pier 9, Lido Island. Not far from the Excelsior Hotel. If you go to the Campo San Marco and take a taxi, you can't miss it. I'm the first galleon on the right. Well, point of fact: I'm the only galleon on the right. And... take whatever time you need. That's your prerogative. I simply want to see you when you are ready. I have breakfast waiting.
     You really can't trust the written word to correctly convey the contents of the heart. Words always miss the mark but eyes seldom do. You will see the truth of it on him as much as he shall you. He has his upsets, but he does love you. He has his duties, but his thoughts are still on you. Despite what his words may have said.
     But there was truth even in that, for can it ever be as it was again? Innocence is gone and the first flush of love is over. Still, what is not fought for in some manner never was worth it to begin with. So, here I am.
     I think the last few weeks have prepared me well enough for marriage, thank you. I have been inconsolable, lonely, in a foul mood, prone to drinking heavily followed by not sleeping and working as if it were the air that filled my lungs. Fortunately, I love to work and find my efforts very gratifying. But it's not a substitute for everything. Are we going to argue the entire time? We could have kept writing for that...

     I am not angry.
     The words come quietly to you. There is no anger there; there is still that sea-wall, the dyke that seeks to hold back the ocean. He is in motion, though you cannot see that; a taxi's taken, the address given quietly, in clipped tones. Pier 9, Lido. It buys him time, yes? Time in which he leans back, eyes closed and palms pressed to his eyes. His head aches. His heart aches.
     I am surprised, certainly, but not angry, Io. I wasn't aware we were arguing. You seem to be, but ... I'm not sure why, or to what purpose. I will be there soon, you can hit me then if you want.
     His face will never be prepared for this, and he reluctantly resigns himself to it. You know him too well; he has been in love with you too deeply and too long to hide so well, now that his emotions have reawakened. The cab that pulls up, the man that gets out of it - can you see him from where you are? Long-limbed and almost lanky, the unkempt black mane and the sleepless eyes with their dark circles, his hands going into his pockets as he looks down to pull out money, count it out with a carefully generous tip.
     Inconsolable...
     Tiernan looks up to the ship for a long moment from the dock, unmoving as the taxi pulls again away. He bows his head, hands again in his pockets, and lips move silently as if in prayer. You know I've promised you always to tell you the truth, Io. You don't think I'd stop now, do you? If I were going to stop, I'd have done so before embarrassing and humiliating myself, I promise, not after. Anyway, I'm here, if you still want to see me. Permission to board, captain?

     I don't want to hit you, Tiernan...
     At the pier there are people who look like a security detail. They greet you with a smile you instantly recognize as serpentine, and one speaks into a hand-held device. The entry plank lowers from above to give you entry as the two ...men in dark clothing return to sipping their small cups of espresso. There are other shipmen around, tending to what needs to be tended as the captain comes into view.
     He looks as if he's aged a few years. It hasn't been that long but there is a maturity gained in all of this that when coupled with his sleeplessness makes him appear twenty-five if he's a day. Out of sight for a couple of months of earth time, how much time have you missed in the Otherworld?
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig is in a simple long-sleeved shirt. It is a pullover made of soft cotton that fits him tightly at arms and chest but falls slack at his trimmer waist. He is wearing a coat which you know would be The Coat were it visible to mortal eyes; it is not, and here takes on the look of an ordinary blazer made extraordinary by the adding of insignia on the sides of his upper arms. A pair of midnight colored trousers matches the blazer. His feet are bare so far this morning. He has not left the ship, nor plans to. His fiery red hair stands out all the more for all that blue, cut short so curls are tamed. In his hands is a coffee cup that is then set aside so he might welcome you aboard.
     Periwinkle eyes give him away. As they lock first upon the sight of your face (how you've changed), you see him reacquainting himself with what all of this has meant -- your departure, his loneliness admitted to so few. He was not prepared for what it would mean, you can see that as he tips back his head and sighs then motions you forward. As you come, he regains his composure. "You look like a man who's been to sea and fought back marauders. I'm sorry to have missed that."

     He comes up the plank as slowly as if going to his execution. It is not that he does not want to see you. It is that his heart aches at the prospect. It aches at the thought of you; at the thought of not having you; it aches. It is one big bruise. The dragons (why pretend they are anything else?) are offered a small smile. All reactions are being subdued; he is bracing himself, as much as he can, for that inevitable first sight of you.
     He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled and not bothering to try to lay it flat again. He turns to you as you rise to him, and he stands his ground as if the sight of you were not a blow below the belt. "Yes, well," Tiernan says softly, "you didn't miss much. It was over pretty quickly, wasn't it? But I'm sorry, too."
     Sorry...
     Apologies do nothing, yes, Io? I feel as if I could burst into tears for the sight of you. If I were alone, maybe I would. But I am not alone. You are here, and there is nothing I can do.
     He has the look of exhaustion to him, the blue gaze remote not because of a lack of emotion but because of the sheer force of his will holding back his reactions. His feelings. He did not expect it to be as hard as it in fact is. Did not expect it to hurt as much as it does, seeing you. He is unable to hold your gaze. "Yes, well," Tiernan concludes softly, looking down with a tip of his chin. His hands go into his pockets, fingers rubbing against coins and folded bits of paper in his coat. "Here we are, aye?"

     The dragons in the guise of shipmen make themselves so suddenly scarce, becoming part of the ship that they are, in fact... well, are. "This was a bad idea, wasn't it," Iowerth whispers. "I ... should have listened to my intuition." Drawing in a breath, he motions you have a seat on the deck. There is a table full of food and two comfortable chairs brought up from the captain's chamber. You know those chairs well. "But we may as well eat."
     It is too late now. I have seen you and you have seen me and together we see how awkward we now are. We may fantasize about things being able to be what they were, but now we see the truth don't we. We see it as we saw it that night, the last night, on this ship.
     "After I read your last letter, I thought about how I had worded mine. I wanted to... apologize to you," Iowerth says as he pours two cups of coffee. "I didn't say I Love You in the letter because I ... didn't want to do what I am seeing now -- make this anymore difficult for you than it was already. But I didn't mean for it to seem that I didn't and don't love you, because... it isn't true. I guess I could have put that in another letter but I was afraid that you'd not read anymore."
     "Duw," Iowerth sighs as he collapses into one of the armchairs, "I'm so stupid. I took love advice from Gwilym. Go see him, he said, fight for what you love." Tipping back his head, he shakes it slowly. He closes his eyes to give you both some refuge. "Please, the marmalade is quite good," Iowerth whispers, his hand motioning for you to sit and eat. "How on earth did we get here, I wonder," he says suddenly, softly. He shakes his head again, his hand to the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed still.
     A deep inhale is taken and he faces you all at once. His periwinkle eyes show the brightness of moisture gathered just behind his lashes. He wills them not to fall. Iowerth's mouth tries a smile that fails. His mouth twitches then tugs downward slightly. "I really wanted this to be something joyous, lemonade made out of piss as they say. Or is that making lemonade from lemons?" He waves it off. It doesn't matter. "I am sorry if I've made this now harder for you. That ... was not my intention, Tiernan. I ...want nothing but your happiness and success."

     "It is difficult," Tiernan admits, voice quiet, moving slowly to sit where you bid. One hand folds into a fist, the knuckle pressed to his lips before smoothing away to his lap. His eyes close; his only defense. "But bad idea or good? It is what it is, Io. We've said that to each other many times."
     He says nothing, hands knotting together with an entanglement of fingers. He listens to you as you pour the coffee, as you speak. And he has to swallow before he can answer you.
     "I love you," Tiernan says softly, so quietly; it is hard to get the words out. "I never stopped, Io. I went to do what I felt I had to do. I ... wanted to make sure that I could do my best. Be the best that I could for you. Because ... the future being what it is..."
     He has to stop for a moment; his shoulders hunched, one hand drawing away from the other and closing into a fist. A knuckle presses against his closed lips until they whiten, a noisy breath inhaled through his nose and held. His hand comes away, and he turns his face away, to the side, his eyes not opening. "The future being what it is," Tiernan continues in that quiet, taut voice, "I ... knew if we were to have any hope of a future ... I have to bring nothing but the best to the table."
     He swallows thickly, lips pressed together and inwards, and abruptly, he stands up, turning so that his back is to you. The sound that is strangled in his throat is a sob, suppressed but escaped nonetheless, and he takes a step away, rubbing both hands over his face. "...It doesn't matter, Io," Tiernan whispers, his voice hoarse. "If this is the way it has to be, then ... I've made my bed, yeah? I'll just have to live with it."

     "And I know... that for us to have a future," Iowerth murmurs, "...we have to come together not with who we were, together or separately, but who we are at that moment. We can't go back to the way it was. All we have left is to see what tomorrow might bring us. It does not mean that I'm ... removing you," he tips his chin down as he looks at you, "... from my life, Tiernan. But it does mean that I have to face the fact that you are living your life and when all is said and done, who knows where that is going to lead you?"
     "Difficult," the prince echoes quietly, nodding. "It is difficult. To mourn the past as being gone without slamming the door shut to what could still be. That is what I meant, when I said I was being open, concentrating on ... hoping for the future, of being open and open-minded so that should you return to the Otherworld and my life I will be able to receive you. If I ... think or get trapped in the notion that: Oh when he comes back, things will be back to normal, then it'll be doomed. How could it possibly be as it was when we will no longer be those young men? We will be different, changed. You particularly."
     He spreads marmalade on a biscuit with buttered cream. "I don't know how else to see it, Tiernan. If I put us on hold, I put myself on hold. Everything. And I can't do that -- it's counter-productive for starters and who's to say you'd even love a man who hadn't changed in ...however long you'll be away? Time moves slowly here, far more slowly than it does in the Otherworld. If I lock myself away, then I'd be no use to anyone, least of all you."
     He wants to follow you in your sobbing, but he doesn't. It would only make it more difficult. "Do you understand where I'm coming from? I'm trying not to say goodbye. I'm trying to say hello." His throat makes his own noise and he looks away to calm it, swallowing the biscuit down and following it with a bit of sweet butter beer. "The future being what it is... the future."

     "Don't discard it so readily." Tiernan does not look at you. He goes to the ship's side, hands braced upon it as upon the bridge railing. He does not look at you as he speaks, though his voice is the quiet, soft one you have heard before. More emotional, perhaps, but still the measured tones of one who has been your advisor. "I dispute how black and white you seem to see this, Io."
     He does not speak right away, does not continue right away. His hands are spread apart, he leans forward, looking out on the waters of Venice without seeing them, head turning to the side. Salt may flow to fall to salt, now, unbidden but at least unseen by you. Tears may be shed without you knowing.
     "...What has been does not go away, even if we change. It remains valid; my testing that foundation, I had to know that it had been secure. I just - wasn't aware that doing so meant knocking down the house." It is said calmly; stoic, you've heard him like this before. "But that doesn't matter. I was wrong. I've been wrong before, daresay I will be again. My being here... in this world ... I don't intend to remain much longer, Io. It - no; I won't say that."
     He straightens, hands again in his pockets; there's the suggestion of a slouch. His eyes are again closed, though with his back to you, you do not see that. "It's funny," Tiernan says softly. "I ... didn't foresee any of this, Io. So I suppose I can stop thinking myself such a good advisor and planner, aye? I do not know what to say to you. I do not think that I can say anything. Nothing will come out right, the words just - won't obey me. You decided that when I left, I was leaving you; and you decided that meant that it was over, and from here, anything we do must be a new beginning. To me, Io, when I left ... I wasn't leaving our relationship. I was going somewhere else, but my heart, it stayed with you. Your letter was the first inkling I had that ... it wasn't..."
     The words grind to a halt. He is entirely silent now, his head tipped down to the floorboards. No sobs; no words. Just quiet breathing for a long moment. "...I'm going back to my hotel," Tiernan says, finally. "If you want to reach me, Io... that's where I'll be, at least until tonight."

     "And how am I to know how long it will be? How am I to know who you will be when you return? The same Tiernan but with how much more experience? And how then will I seem to you? I did not say I did not love you and shall not love you while you are gone. But how can you say I am being black-and-white in this? Have you not said you don't know who you are? Have you not said you do not know when you will return? Have you said you do not know where you are going? How else am I to view this, Tiernan? To simply press pause on my heart while you're away? To press a pause on my life while you are out trying to find who you are and what you want to be? You and Gwilym, you want the ocean to freeze solid for you," and now he is upset, and his voice shows it, "...but it doesn't. The sea does not freeze, Tiernan. It is a dynamic, living, ever-changing thing, and if I were to dam it up, dam myself up, I should explode and drown the world until there is nothing else to discover."
     He tosses the biscuit to the table, pushing the chair back. The green of his eyes, what little there is on an normal day, is pushed to the outer rim like the halo of the Horizon. "You tell me the house that can stand when the foundation is liquid or sand. You are testing that very foundation and then you get upset with the house gets irritated by the disruption? You want to disrupt everything and have nothing disrupted. Well, Life doesn't work that way, Tiernan. I don't work that way. You decided to leave. I, in loving you, accepted it. I accepted it that night never knowing whether I would receive a letter or a call or ever see you again, and you want me not to see it that way? You can't fucking have your cake and eat it too, Tiernan. You can't leave me with nothing and expect that I will sit there and not think that you're actually gone. You're not on a fucking vacation you know. You're in another world, living your life. What the hell am I supposed to do while you're gone? Play cards? Take up knitting?"
     His jaw sets. "I don't know what else you could have expected but that I would think that what has happened has, in fact, happened. You left me to do what you felt you needed to do. I have supported you, gods, despite my heart because I care for you. If I didn't love you, I would've seduced you into staying, into giving it all up, all of your happiness up so I could be comfortable. That is what someone who does not love you will do. I gave you up to the future. I traded in my present happiness for a promise of future happiness. A promise? A hope. Not even so strong as a promise. I gave it all up for a hope," he sobs a chuckle and shakes his head.
     "You are not hearing me. No one is listening! I love you. That has not changed. But god damn it, Tiernan, the future is unknowable and change cannot be predicted. It's not nearly as consistent as the weather and the weather's not consistent for shite." It is a good thing everyone on Lido likely has a hangover and did not wake up to that lifting of his voice. "I don't know how anyone fucking expects me to just sit over there and say lah-tee-fucking-dah-my-lover's-gone... but nothing's the matter, nothing's changed, life goes fucking on."

     "I know who I am, now." His voice is still quiet, not rising like yours. "I didn't know; I needed to figure it out. It didn't take me that long. I'm not some sort of starving poet, to take twenty years to figure something out. But fine; fair enough. You can't put your life on hold. I wasn't asking you to, you know. I just - wasn't aware that our relationship was something where, if I wasn't around for a few months, it meant you had to set yourself on pause, or that if I was gone longer, it couldn't then be brought up when it became a problem. I wasn't aware that thinking like that meant trying to have my cake and eat it too. You have my apologies."
     He straightens up, lets his head tip back on his shoulders. "I suppose I figured you'd go on living your life while I was gone, and if something came up which required rewriting things, then we'd discuss it. And I rather thought I was - oh, not on a vacation, no; it's taking work. But a sabbatical, certainly. A leave of absence to take care of matters. In a sense, going away for training and mental health leave."
     He turns to you, looking at you steadily, eyes wiped so that they are only moist instead of wet. "The thing is, Io... I wasn't aware that you needed to give me up in order for this to work. You never said that. I'm listening, but you didn't start talking until well after I left. You did dam it up until things exploded, and now I'm standing here looking at the pieces and trying to figure out what to do next. Maybe it wasn't as bad an explosion as it could've been, but here we are now. And in all of what you are saying and have been saying, you have not told me what I need to know. I don't even know what you want, Io. I don't even know that you want me back."
     He exhales, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm tired," Tiernan says lowly. "I don't think I've slept since I got your letter. I've been trying to tell you how I feel, what I want. But I thought we were operating on one assumption - that I would be coming back to you in due course and probably not in a long time. I've ... condensed a lot of learning into as short a time as I could; planned it this way, as best I could, to get through things as much as possible so that even if we were in different worlds, we'd still come through it about the same. Not good enough, I guess. Do I expect you to have brushed it all off? No."
     He inhales, struggling now with his own temper; and blue eyes lift to your periwinkle. "But I expected you to tell me things. And if that meant hunting me down and sitting on me at least long enough to say those things? Then yes. Because I'm not a mind reader. And I didn't know. And no amount of my saying 'I didn't know' will seem a good enough excuse to you, but it's all I've fucking got, Io. I can't hide behind 'oh, but I love you', no matter how true it is. So where do we go from here? From the first, I have always been willing to give up everything I have had to be with you. Granted, what I had turned out to be pretty thin and flimsy, but I didn't know that at the time."
     His jaw working, he folds his arms tightly over his chest. "...This isn't about what I did or didn't give up for you, or why I left, though. I tried to tell you as much as I could what was going on with me, and what I wanted. And that's never changed. But in all this, you're talking about closed pasts and new beginnings and that you love me and that you can't predict the future - but you didn't talk to me. You decided for me, for us. My leaving didn't do that; /you/ did. And you hurt and you resent me for the hurt, and you resent the world for throwing it in your face that you have loved and hurt for the loving, but you're still not touching the next stage, which is what I am standing here trying to get you to answer. What are we going to do about it? Or is this again, my fault?"

     "You can't take a leave of absence from a person," Iowerth exhales. "I'm not a job." Back to the wall where stairs lead to the upper deck, he sighs, his hand going again to the bridge of his nose. His head is throbbing, his ears filled with the sound of a turbulent sea. He lowers his hand, his arms thereafter folding against his chest. "I ... want you to rule with me," he murmurs. "I want you to be by my side. I need you there. Not here. I need you there. I love you," his eyes lift from the floor of the deck to your blue eyes, the anger drained out of his periwinkle, lavender mixing with that odd, odd green. "And I need you with me. I need you to... figure it out... whatever it is."
     A wave rises up in his gut, and his arms unfold, a hand slamming against the ship. He exhales again, bowing his head and shaking it. "I don't know what to do or feel sometimes. I just want to swallow everything, don't you see. And I don't want to swallow you." Iowerth swallows, looking at you with a teasing look. "Well... I want to swallow you just... not your entire being. With you, I feel... I can be tender and compassionate, I'm a better man. And god knows I'd be a better king with you than without you. I don't want to rehash anymore. I just want you to come home."
     Shaking his hand, Iowerth makes a face. That hurt. Not smart. He folds his arms up against his chest again. "When you... feel you're ready to," he softly adds. "I didn't want to see you because I didn't want to be guilty of cutting your trip short, you see. You need to do what you need to do and ... I guess I just need to ... wait for you to do it. I'm not used to this, Tiernan. I'm not used to not being able to see and understand something immediately. Or... riding some wave that I'm not myself captaining. And I don't like sailing blindly, either, not when I can't at least control the ship that I'm riding on. And with you, everything seems to be out of my hands."
     His hands rub his face, his eyes, and one rakes through his hair, making the fiery thickness stand up here and there very like a fire. "Will you stay here tonight?" he wonders softly. He doesn't look at you as he makes his request.

     "No. But you can go away without the relationship going, too," Tiernan counters, voice again quiet. His gaze is intent, locked onto you. "And there is nothing that says my being here means I cannot see you. I have two good eyes, yes? I needed ... to find out that I was a real person, Io. I wanted to be sure that there was something in me which we could term a soul. When my mother died... it left me numb, and so very, very cold. And I had questions which noone could answer; I had to go looking."
     He sighs, one hand lifting to rub across his face, his exhale warm. "I don't want anyone else. I could have others. But I do not want them, Io. Did it ever occur to you that I might be done? I want to come home," he admits it. "You are not alone in wanting me home. But will this make us bitter? I know who I am. I know now what I am capable of. I am capable of holding down a job without it being given me by a prince. I am competent of performing miracles without solely being inspired by my love. I can draw a woman's attention without a sou in my pocket. I'm /real/. And that's what I needed to know."
     He leans back against the railing, closing his eyes and leaning himself far back. "I want you, Io," Tiernan whispers. "Deus... do you know how lonely it's been? My arms have been empty of anyone since I left. I haven't had sex, I haven't had companionship, I haven't looked at any pair of eyes and seen someone who knows me unless I looked in a mirror. Of course I want to stay. But are you sure you want me to?"

     "I'm not bitter," Iowerth insists, "...and I'm not upset that you had to find yourself. How often do I have to say: I support you fully -- for you to understand that? It didn't occur to me you might be anything other than just starting out. I don't read minds either. I can't assume or presume anything. I take you at your word. What else am I to do? You've not been dishonest with me. I'm glad you've gotten some confidence back. I know you needed that."
     Around the two of you, Venice is waking. Lido Island is beginning to hum with liveliness, the waters of the lagoon that separates Lido from Venice are full of taxis. It promises to be warm, but there is a good breeze from the Adriatic. It will keep it from being stifling.
     The neglected breakfast disappears, and shipmen arrive taking the furniture and returning it to where it belongs. Iowerth looks at you, and finally it is a look not through the filter of his own feelings but to simply look at you -- as he once did. "I haven't been able to sleep on this ship since you left. It is yours as much as mine now." He pushes himself off of the wall and heads to you, to the railing. "I want you to stay. And if you have to go again after, that's fine," he murmurs. "Tell me you'll be back and I'll believe you."
     Out of eyesight of the pier and docks and the tourists beginning to move below (and gawking at the galleon as they pass), Iowerth takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. "I know you are hungry. You have gotten thinner. Let's go below," he murmurs, "...and we'll eat and do ourselves a favor and say nothing for a while. I just want to hold you. I have never before been surrounded by so many people and yet had arms so empty as I have been in a kingdom without you."
     Your hand in his, Iowerth turns to lead you to the upstairs deck and the hatch that opens to the long, winding stairs that lead down to the captain's quarters. There you will see the breakfast reset, things that were warm are warm again and coffee is waiting and tea.

     There is no resistance to your grasping of his hand. It was so hard - deus, so hard to leave in the first place, and now? Now he does not want to go. Even if he feels he should.
     The emotions are so turbulent. How could they be anything but, between you and he...
     "I have missed you," Tiernan says softly. His feet find themselves moving. "It did not matter where I went or who I met, Io. I was always caught looking for you. Looking with an eye to your interests." Your hand is squeezed; his is trembling. "I just feel so very stupid and useless right now."

     "I've missed you too," Iowerth softly confides. "And not just in the way you might imagine," seconds his droll drawl. "I've missed turning to you and being able to look at you as you're working on something. Or reading. Or hearing you speak, the few times you do, but always with such clarity. My silences used to be filled with a thousand things done by you, and when you were not there... the quiet became Empty. I was not expecting that..."
     Just inside the captain's quarters and still on the stairs, Iowerth halts the progression and he looks at you, drawing you near him. "Why do you feel useless and stupid? Earlier you did not seem to be feeling this way." Is it me? Is it some dynamic we create? Do I surround you like rising water, making you feel like you are drowning, flailing? Iowerth holds your hand, his thumb lightly rubbing against your skin.
     Are we after all of that back to square one? "I'm getting the feeling that... I don't know, I feel like I'm a bad influence. Like... I'm keeping you from something. I don't want to do that. I don't want my place in your life or your heart to be a destructive one. I want you to be happy, Tiernan. I want so much for you to be happy, for your life to be rich and full. That's what I want..."

     "Stop that." It's quiet, but an order nonetheless. Tiernan's hand lifts, cupping your face, and he shudders. His thumb brushes your lower lip, and he sighs. "You are doing it again. Taking too much on your plate at once. Making it all your responsibility or your fault. I feel useless and stupid because of this lack of communication between us, Io. That things broke between us this badly. I love you. You, yes, you. Prince Iowerth Rhudd Draig. Io."
     He leans in; his mouth presses to yours, suckling at your lower lip slowly, letting his teeth draw over the tender flesh before he releases. "You are the one I have loved for years. If I hurt you, do you think I don't grieve for it? Stop making so much extra trouble for yourself." And he leans in to where you have drawn him. His weight settles; his hips settle against yours. It is so easy, being close to you. After all this time, he knows how to stand so that he is comfortable and so are you.
     His hand draws along your jaw, down the side of your neck, tugging at your collar so that his fingers may slip just inside. "I needed to know that I was competent, Io. That I was not being given opportunities that I did not deserve. Sooner or later, whether or not you marry, there will be those who out of jealousy or spite say that our friendship is the only reason I've been given such opportunities. I needed to prove to myself that was not true; and nothing you could say would dispel that. With as hollow as I felt, I would not have been able to shrug them off, and I have seen the poison of words at their work often in my life, Io; my mother's court, remember?"
     He frees his hand from yours; cups your face in both his hands, blue eyes to your periwinkle ones. "I love you," Tiernan says softly. "I am a man, yes? And I know where my heart chooses to be. Just as my hands choose what they now do, so my heart chooses with whom it wishes to rest. Broken or bruised, our hearts are together." Unhurriedly, his hands have begun to undo your clothing. Buttons, ties, clasps; your shirt is freed from the waist of your trousers. He lectures you while he acts.
     "I do not feel I am drowning or flailing. But I intend to make you wonder if you are before we sleep."

Posted by rowan at August 17, 2006 08:18 PM