"Have a safe trip, Gillian West. The woods are wild and thick with thieves." It is a snippet of a poem, a part of a riddle, a realization spoken with bittersweet softness, a sadness for a brother, and sing-song truth.

     "You can always choose to quit, Loki. If you do not wish to be a priest, then you will be doing my king no good with your service. You will tax his energy, and your own. And you will both be less for it. Be honest," Aeron murmurs as he takes the 8-ball and rolls it down the length of the table, sinking it into the left corner pocket.

     Aeron sobs into your mouth, the kiss a tangle of mouths and breaths and a quiet groan of despair. I have designed it, built it since I was ten years old. And a bright shining light has ruined it all.

     "The Birth of Venus," Gruffydd says suddenly, grand peacock wings making themselves known, spreading with relaxation. "You remind me of the Botticelli painting." He shimmers in his own exotic grandeur, made more so by merely being in your shimmering presence.

     "You don't behave well enough to be a trained monkey," Davydd notes, "...now...shush... listen to your mother. She's onto something. Besides which, even if it's utter rubbish, you'll not get a word in edgewise against it so you might as well relax and pay attention."

     He looks between brothers and eyes them with the internal weariness of a man who's never had kids. "Time out." Gwilym does the internationally recognized signal for it of the tee of hands.

     "...You are on the Hero's Journey now, Loki. And I'm sure you realize that it's not exactly the easiest road to follow. The clues are obscure at best," Aeron drawls out, "...the gods occasionally fickle and prone to obfuscation..."

     But he's not worried about Loki just now. He'll visit him later. Aeron's gaze and Aeron's thoughts are on his king. "Brother-king," he murmurs, "...you are too hard on yourself. Do not do the Universe's work for It."

     "The legends do say I was born at night," Aeron's voice is a somnolent murmur, dreamy and even and droll. "But not last night."

     "Run."

     "Faith," he answers quietly, a hush between. "What you need tonight is faith. And so... I will give it to you."

     Nature hates an echo, Bran...

     Loki follows Gwilym without further question or complaint. Maybe one glance to Aeron, before he moves. The promise of coffee ahead helps, but more of it is that he only has so much energy to give to irritation at his own confusion when the world is busy being very strange around him.

     There is little that is more enjoyable than the prick of the holly leaf. Little that is more potent than the bitter balm of the holly berry. There is little that is more stinging than the potential loss of the Holly King's favor...

     Loki slides back, dragging his foot away. "Sure." And on tonight's episode of Seventeen Synonyms For Yes... He stands up, momentarily shaky for reasons that have nothing to do with general ability to walk.

     "They both have a problem with doing. One is doing well, but thinks he does not do enough. The other does too much and thinks that everything he does is suspect. So... through doing... they will learn. You were right in throwing them together. The future Oak King must know the ways of the Holly King if he is to take his position."

     "Tss," Davydd whispers, "..you're going to burn a hole in my fancy rugs with that temper. Go get some air. Fetch Ani," Davydd pats him on the shoulder. "Tell him it's time for supper."

     "I am glad we talked. We will continue to talk, oes?" And now he is the one with a hand on Bran's shoulder. "I am sorry, Bran, for the exile. It was wrong of me." He lightly pats Bran's shoulders and turns, leaving a stunned Bran in his wake.

     "I had no idea that they were," he frowns deeply, "... set against us. I do not like being treated as a criminal. What have I done but give my life for their kingdom?"

     "Caustic," he notes with something of appreciation to his tone. "I don't know who the Lakers are," he drags on. "But I do love a good decimation. That is why god invented rugby."

     "...You exist," Aeron posits philosophically, "...merely because we think you do, and thus in your reactions," he glances back to the healed wardrobe, "...do you find solidity. You are the shadow of the shadow, brother."

     "I have never closed my door to you. It has always remained politely ajar," Iowerth notes. He speaks his own truth. "You're my brother. It isn't so much a door as it is a curtain."

     It has been a hell of a three-day night. Three dog night? Whatever it was. Gwilym stirs, body as close to entirely limp as it is possible.

     Ravens and years both fly, and flocks like months have ticked across the sky of time. You are king of ever growing territories, hillocks and mounds, meadows of former chaotic and corrupted earth, now transformed to the renewal that the Holly King brings, always with the sacrifice of blood and toil.

     ... You are staring... uncertain... wary and wise...

     "You've made a right mess of a perfectly evil tower," Aeron says, leaning back with his hands propping him upon on the stone.