For a moment, his smile moves a bit in his eyes. You are growing up. But not that much. You are a boy still. "Being crown prince makes it difficult. It was so for us. Do you want my advice on what you should do, or just to listen?"

     A hand comes up, tugs lightly at your hair, and she sighs, going quiet. Love is a son of a bitch. Remind me, if I ever run into that fat diapered freak that's Cupid, to kick him in the balls...

     "...I can't go on pretending to be Saint Peter to make all of you love me, or forgive me, or need me. I'm collapsing under the strain of it..."

     She's suddenly shy, taking the paper back and setting it aside. "I have a lot of faith. I mean, it's not religious faith; I don't know how you'd explain it. It's not religion, though. I just, I do believe there's something more to the universe than atoms..."

     A moment's pause is all there is. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. I understand your part of the argument. I can understand his regret. I ...appreciate it more... what he was going through, or I imagine he was going through, when we were young.

     ...But I will be your escape when you need it. That's what Black Jacks do best...

     Here stand two kindred spirits, bound by family, blood, bad habits and emotion. But though they speak the same language, and though they stand not ten feet apart, there's a chasm between them, these men, neither of them a bridge-builder.

     "The audience is over," Fiona says lightly. "And his Majesty must return to his duties. You will make a grand king, Iowerth. It is not much consolation, I know."

     "My life has been one drama after another, like I've turned into a stage and I've got Shakespeare on my back and Plautus up my ass."

     "It's a good deal more goddamned interesting than cricket..."

     He stands there, waiting for you to move to the sofa as instructed. Who's the servant here anyway? "Would you like anything to eat while I work?"

     "His family here has grown, but the family he has had for the last six centuries is struggling, Fiona. We are... I am," he counters, "... grappling with trying to understand why. Why .. in that moment... he sacrificed one for the other."

     Though my head is bowed, I look to my son. I find his eyes are already on me, those strange periwinkle eyes. I smile at him, and it takes everything in me not to scoop the new king in my arms and hold him till he chokes.

     "Well, I have a heart like a raisin. A prune. But... I will tell you something," he whispers now. "When I am with you, I can feel it growing plump again with blood, Gwilym. I can almost feel it beat again, like it did when I was young. And alive."

     "Would I be happier in knowledge or ignorance? Let's ask Adam, shall we? I believe that is the quintessential question of the universe, my brother. For now, give me the illusion of ignorance. If you are still seeing him in a year, then... come confess, my door will be open for you as always."

     "You are in my blood," he groans, "... like Caravaggio's disease. You burn there, and I find no rest from my want, amice."

     A guitar pick rolls and flips, finger to finger, leaping, effortlessly leaping, faster. And faster. It is a blur of motion, faster and faster until it becomes a streak of red and blue hovering above his hand like an aura. The pick, a guitar. Are you playing me, shadow-lord?

     "No whining on the astral plane," comes the intonation of his voice. Rhodri looks at you, cocking up an eyebrow. He saves whatever other commentary he may have for later. "What are you drinking?"

     Putting the hearth's poker back in its stand, Iowerth turns to you. "It is an outer cold," he assures. "Winter is a season for contemplation."

     The explosion consisted of his foot, the private quarter's door, and a round of darts. With short swords.

     It is a leap of faith; a gamble. But it is a calculated risk, based half on intellect and things-remembered and things-not-quite-said and not-quite-heard, and the other half on the desperation that a pair of eyes, a pair of hands outside these two plus two might make sense of something which he, Tiernan of Winter Diamond, Prince, aka Terry Winter, Esquire, has to admit to himself he no longer knows how to solve.

     Iowerth smirks. "Worried, Distressed and Confused." His eyebrows arch up and he exhales. It does sort of suit him at the moment...

     "If only we poor human creatures could be guided by the Logic and Reason we crave. Your solutions are not new, they are simply not acted upon. Not so quickly. They say things are changing, more children heard playing in Venice these days. I hope it is so. At night, late," that mouth of his spreads in a smile as he lights up his cigarette, "...you can almost hear the collective breath of the city being held..."

     "With so much complexity, the more one struggles the worse it gets. I struggled, quietly and not so quietly. I'm sure I shall again. That's the nature of life."

     I am your Star, oes? And maybe, just maybe that is part of the problem, Io. Your boy ... you made him your chamberlain, your seneschal. But what is he to you, in that sense? It isn't enough to love, sometimes. Sometimes, it needs to be given a name.

     "...You? Completely different. Sleight of hand, hide the heart. You have the concerns and the questions of a master spy. The Thief King. Your brother is the drowning waters that fill the lungs. He daily seeks to avoid drowning. Himself. Others. You..." He narrows his eyes in studying you. "I believe you are in danger of making yourself a figment of everyone's imagination. Including your own."

     "You are important to me, Io," he says quietly. "Y' are, oes? But ... I need to learn this, this thing. You - are going to go off in other directions. I've been ... using you for balance, all my life. And now ..." You have gone off in another direction. And my equilibrium is suffering.

     "The realtor told me the previous occupant was ...quite artistic. He said the whole ship's painted rather fantastical, with blinking Christmas lights strung up year round." His mouth cuts a wry slant. "I'm not sure about that."

     The perpetual gargoyle, Edward sits upon a ledge, smoking the last of his current case of cigarettes. Soon it will be time for another, and he'll have to leave his perch to find the nearest corner store for a top up. The other option is simply to go home, and he's not really sure he's up for it at this instant.

     Davydd rolls back, landing on his back with a mighty groan. He looks at you then at the ceiling. "I used to be a wretched thing," he murmurs. "Just between you and me," he murmurs. "I used to be quite wild and wretched. An untamed creature. Strong, mighty, full of confidence..."

     "An angel's feather falling, I have such, from the Plains of Chaos, the Outer Rim of The Great Marches." She makes a motion to the other woman. "It will be very dear indeed," she smiles beautifully, "... the most expensive item in the entire City, I should think. Second only to a night with me."

     At your mention of calling someone, the door flies open, steam pouring out and green eyes sparkle in the hot fog. "Fucking hell, no. I don't want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to finish my shower, fucking go shoot someone or start a war or sommat manly activity."

     There's a nod from the Primogen, his hand adjusting the lapel of his dark suit. A kindness to the decorum of the court. "Saarbrucken," he says softly. That was the place. Lips purse and a slight noise escapes as attention's given back to Greydon. "Your problem, Trevelyan," Edmund says by way of acknowledgement. He doesn't want to hear anything about it.

     "...All of this, it was built for you. For us. And we will invest in these things that make sense in a new age. For us. For me. So...that is what we are celebrating, oui? The start of a new day. The culmination of all my work, here and now. And the start of ... something new."

     Al'alim taps away the brown and grey ash, "I do not think you sound foolish. Young," he grins at your call on that. "Not yet lacking hope in self or in others. If you can hold onto such feelings, then... who knows," another shrug, "...you may be the better philosopher..."

     "Layers and layers deep. I fall in, he falls in..." Valan's voice trails off. "We fall in."

I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me
I know you'll miss me blind...

     William exhales slightly. "I know...we have been more open since returning from America. And I have needed that. And I appreciate how difficult it is for you." He adjusts your towel around your shoulder. "There's a part of me that ... wants to take the Directorate by storm one night. You and I... secret marriage... not so secret anymore."

     You may be remade for your service if your Heart is True. You must be willing to give up your very identity in this, your very being. If you cannot submit, the metamorphosis will rip your being apart and you will not survive. This is spoken with reverence. For the Hellborn, it is the first time they hear the full power of the Symphony. But for the two of you, those once Fallen, it is a return Home."

     The rare few plan to be a harpy or become The Harpy because they know the true path - poise first, influence second, power follows. Only then will the crowd point and say - That is the one you need to talk to. That is the one you should impress.

     But this December, where water was expected (and by one particular visitor, actually anticipated) there is instead snow. And not just a dusting of snow. Several inches of snow hide the stones of the Piazza San Marco and icicles hang from the open mouths of St. Mark's golden lions.

     Davydd lowers his head, red hair vibrant against your ivory skin as he bends down, kisses travling southward. "It doesn't matter where," he breathes between your breasts. You feel a sudden unhooking as his fingers make the fabric give way. "Here is good," he chuckles.

     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.

     What you two have always told me finally sank in, I suppose. You need me. Both of you. You aren't just saying it - the three of us, we move together or not at all.

     "I fought my demons literally. My selfishness, my fear, the nine-headed beast of Chaos. I even burned in the sun once. Unpleasant, but you know... I needed it. I needed to just be... reborn. So... I was. Again... and again...and again...sacrificing myself over and over, only to rise again the next evening and assess my state." Dark eyes lift to you. "It was my bridge, I guess."

     The folded towel is set upon the rock beside him and he looks out to the surf. Lastly to you. "It has been good to ... put my head back on my shoulders. To replace the noise with the sea. I needed this."

     The silence is reassuring. Out here, there is nothing but me and It. We can both forget our crammed souls, the ocean and I. It can forget the fish swimming under its skin. I can put aside these thoughts that have been swimming in my mind.

     I coughed my way onshore like an asthmatic seal, gorging up sand and gagging on sea water. The sun baked the liquid off my shoulders. I could feel it igniting each strand of my hair. I have become the roman candle I always seemed.

     She sighs, going silent, tipping her head back to look up at the sky. "I once told you," Fiona says finally, "that there would be a war coming. You didn't believe me, then. But there will always be wars, Davy. Right now, your war is with yourself. I can't win that war for you..."

     Davydd both chuckles and sobs to hear that. Turning his head to his friend, he gives a vipered grin, his eyes creasing in the corners. "Now that's the William I know and love," comes the croak of his voice. "On my ass to the end of time."

     "You attuned to the Outcast," Madian says dryly, with only that momentary pause to signal his surprise, "and you spoke to him. What did you do, firstly, to make this happen - to, as you say, the best of your abilities?"

     There is a new story in the images that sail at you. A man with a face of terrible beauty when angered pours himself a drink in the back of a limousine. The bulletproof glass installed as a modification to the old limousine holds up to the throwing of a glass as his temper erupts. His scotch-stained hands go to his head as he sits forward.

     "Don't look like I just gave you some bad tasting medicine," the waitress smiles again, with sparkling blue eyes that don't look the least bit reptilian. "Let's call it a brief respite from Purgatory," she drolls, "...and an opportunity," such a word! "...for you to reclaim that which you believe is lost. I believe the word you're looking for is credibility."

     "Both of your children are healthy. And growing." Both. Two. "As befits a queen with two husbands, you are having two children. Two boys. An heir, my lady, for each king. Because you cannot choose between them, your heart a matter of loving two equally, now you do not have to choose."

     "Mind my delicate skin," William drawls, preparing to step out after you. "I bruise easily."

     "Oh my god," Hwyll finally says, "... that means we have less than nine months to plan a fairy wedding. I think I'm going to faint.

     Rhodri chuckles. "You are so uncomfortable with intimacy. Are you certain you're pregnant? It could just be a case of bad gas, you know."

     Oh well, you say, sitting in the comfy environs of your room, reading over the fucked up details of my life, you are fucking mental Davydd -- everyone knows that. Everyone knows that but you. Only I know it. I've always known it. But then, no one's immune...

     His hand comes out to take the scotch as it is handed to him. Neat, as it should be tasted. Unpolluted. "At least the first year, I still remembered how to use a telephone," he nods to you with a smile. Yes, it is three years. Tempus Fugit.

     "Lookie cos, I just spent a shaky time with Davy. I just called t' say - and you'll never hear it again - that maybe you were right. When we were up there with you and Dunross. Maybe you were right about everything."

     "But our future is out there," Edward's head rolls to the sky again, "...somewhere. Sometime." It's not here yet. He doesn't know what it is, but it does not lie with London.

     His hands rest upon his thighs, his head bowing a moment, and then he looks up to the sky. "Yes, I am ready, Cosimina. I ... must hear it. There is no point running from fortune, fate or time. They will always catch you." Dark eyes turn to you, his face shown to you and his expression.

     "But you are the most amazing wife," Cesare explains, "...on a horse, with a sword, with food, in conversation, in politic, and in bed. This is no shame," the knight remarks. He grins and feigns innocence. A sigh follows as the diversion ends. "I do not know what to do, bello. Not yet."

     But he expects it shall cause no ripple whatsoever, this night at the De Ville, his appearance in the sumptuous halls of his own Clan. Why should it? Would they not have to care first, in order for there to be such a thing? And when have they, exactly. He came in a Plantagenet to a Capet party. This he knows. And as long as he is a Plantagenet, it shall be so.

     It must be why her shades are pulled down, her windows shuttered, the daylight pouring within the chamber subdued and tea filling a cup instead of espresso. Albizzina wanders from the backroom to the front room, kettle in hand and pouring yet another cup of orange tea. In it, she grinds nutmeg and drops three drops of vanilla into it.

     You speak. He writes. "I do not think it is so simple. Your gifts are your gifts. Your skills, your skills. You should not compare yourself to Nathaniel," the way he speaks that name. An obvious attempt at being civil, but he does not hide the partial frown.

     There is no greater rejuvenating power than that of blood. And yours, so magical, moves though him as powerfully as the act of taking it affects you.

     "You know, it's not too late," Fiona mutters, fiddling with her cellphone in her lap. She opens it, closes it again, opens it and watches the glow of the screen. "We can still cancel. We can have a flat tire, we can run off to Mexico, I don't know..."

     "Hindsight is clear-sighted," Davydd exhales, cigarette crushed and the fire is out. "And all the things I have done, there's not a single one I'd repeat but one, and that was lodging the king's sword in Mithras' chest."

     Davydd ap Owain moves within the white void. What has he to fear? If the floor falls away, he will become a bird. If it rains water, he'll become a fish. If it turns to fire. Well, if it turns to fire he's fucked, but at least it will be quick.

     You give him license to ask and he goes quiet. He seems to mull over his question as he looks at his biscuit. He takes a bite of it and washes it down with cooler (though still very warm) cocoa. "Are you happy, Fiona?"

     It is a plate of crow, son, that's what's on the plate, the fork's in your hands, and you're the one eating it, Llywelyn.

     It is the first time he's discussed it. Perhaps it is the safety of this cove, the liberating waves. "Which is the lie and which is the truth?" Giancarlo shrugs. "Is this truth?"

     "Do we know what freedom is?" Giancarlo wonders softly, stepping ahead and taking a seat on a rocky outcropping in the water.

     This was once the great hall. We had our Christmases here, our battles here, he would stand at the fire there and not eat his dinner and never see me.

     The luito speaks. I listen. Through its strings, it reminds me of songs that I have sung. Things I have done, all the good things. All the righteous things.

     You know, it isn't you, amours. I do not need to impress you. I am not trying to impress you. It is worse even than this. I want a ghost to be proud of me. And it is something I shall never feel. A validation I am doomed never to receive.

     "...Whether it wears the veneer of art or the cloak of insurance or shipping conglomerates. It's the same game. And you know ... how I play, oui? I ... do not have a business such as I do, and control such as I have it, because I am good-looking and lucky."

     "...I've learned a lot about my own choices recently. They haven't been the best. The trick is not to repeat them. There's only the potential of forever. Forever... really only exists if you're God. And I'm many things, but I'm not God."

     "The Never...has no place here," Edward begins, not really sure of where he goes with this.

There are but three events that have meaning, and when I think of them, I am moved. All three of them are in this house.

     "...What other arms should I want to be in, but Edward Meurelle's? Where is there a better man for Valan Montague... where is there... a better man..." Period.

     ...Where once there were oak trees, holly trees sprout suddenly upon the earth both wide and tall. Branches spring with taloned, evergreen leaves, and the forms of living dragons surround the roots and trunks, etched even into the skin of the trees. Same as he.

     Ian nods, then looks in the mirror again. Hand lifts to adjust his collar, but then he sighs, lowering his hands. It'd be the fifth time he's made corrections.

     William looks from the sky to his friend again, this time his gaze remains there. "If you cannot remain in Our World, and we ... cannot go to yours... shall there be a middle country? Will Earth do, Davydd?"

     "This mean anything to you?" It's a simple enough question, but the image held on the page is far from simple... there is a figure of a man amid a myriad of threads or strings.. perhaps even within a web. Some strands are cut. Some are not.

     "It did take me longer than it should to realize that though I have been consigned to darkness I do not need to remain in it. In the end, the curse is only as good as the belief one puts in it. Same as faith..."

     As garden parties go, it went rather well. There was a string quartet set up on the paved stone area in front of the chapel, allowing for those who wanted to get in a waltz to do so at their leisure. But, in general, the gathering was more low key.

     Perspective... there's a splinter of it here, after all...