The cured cast has stiffened, hardening into an armored shell. He has risen, bathed what and where he could, and he has dressed himself, at least the bottom half of himself, in loose, drawstring trousers, the fabric perfectly white. His caramel complexion is still a bit lighter than usual -- more caramel and cream -- as his body continues to use all of its available resources to heal. With his metallic wings tucked away, invisible, he appears.... mortal. The crutches highlight his sudden vulnerability.
     Balthazar stands, his weight borne up by the golden crutches, his right foot on the marble floor, and he looks past his window to the balcony and the city beyond that. He did not feel wounded until today. He did not feel outmatched until today. He did not realize that his time had come and gone, that summer has truly ended, until today, and it saps at his mood.
     When he was swept up by the storm and thrown against the citadel, he had not realized that it was more than just his leg that was broken. Now he looks at his dissembled plans, none of the complete and tries to make sense of them. His efforts seem basic, even amateurish.
     Amber eyes turn away from the city and focus on the marble just in front of the crutch's feet. Uncle. I'm about to make your day. Your Majesty. I need a favor.

     Here. Hold my drink. The bottle of brandy from which the Holly King was drinking is passed to his companion, and he takes wing; literally. Where Gwilym had been, resplendent in his black leathers, he takes the form of a jackdaw and takes to the skies, not bothering to pretend to be a normal bird. He plows straight into and through the side of a cloud and emerges on the other side somewhere else.
     You see the bird descending, if you look up; if you do not, then it is descending nonetheless, to land like a meteor at your feet, hopping from side to side with exaggerated flicks of beak and wings as bird-bright eyes look up at you. Since you're not a naked nymph with a side of rare roast beef and a bottle of hundred-year brandy, you'll not make my day, nephew, but we can discuss it all the same. D'you want to discuss it here, or somewhere else?
     The bird becomes a man, still in the dark leathers of the thief and assassin. The hair is the red-gold so prevalent in your family line, and the comet-like smile was inherited (stolen!) directly from your grandfather, his father. The one emerald eye that is visible winks at you. "But," Gwilym continues as smoothly as if it had been aloud all along, "let's get out of the wind, oes? It does no body good, certainly not my aged bones." For all that you and he look as if you could be brothers in age.

     "I'm not quite as mobile at the moment. Someplace without stairs, that's a given," Balthazar wryly murmurs, gesturing to his crutches. Where he was a golden sun before, he has dimmed, become obscured almost, like a sun in eclipse. And you... you are the moon that passes in front of him. And now he knows what his Nainie was alluding to...
     There is nothing more sorrowful than a limping Oak King. It's quite pathetic, really. Balthazar turns away from the window, heading to his room's interior, the living room to be precise. There is a fire going. And as he passes, there is a bottle of brandy and a side of rare roast beef. Girls? Well, there you're on your own...
     "Either way, really. I appreciate the quick response. As you can see, I'm not one-hundred-percent, which is the meat of the favor, to get right down to it. But... you said something about brandy...and roast beef. I shouldn't like to rush you. How have you been?"
     You are always called when you are needed. But it is not out of mere utility that one calls upon the Holly King. Utility is part of it, certainly. But one shows one's respect and love for that energy by asking it to be of use. It's the same as saying I love you.
     Balthazar halts, looking at you fairly directly. He holds still upon the crutches, half expecting you to whisk him off to someplace, who-knows-where?

     He eyes you, following you into your rooms. There is no immediate whisking of you off to strange and foreign lands, and instead he takes a seat, snagging the bottle en route. "As well as ever," Gwilym answers you without giving any useful information whatsoever. "Busy, oes? But then, I am always busy. I am a rat in a maze," he grins, "of my own creation."
     The brandy is uncorked and the bottle brought to his lips as he puts his feet up, looking at you over the bottle as if to say What? But he doesn't; and when the bottle is lowered, he speaks to you directly, though his words may seem anything but. "If you would call upon me, you must be specific," he tells you, "in what you desire. And, in the end, you must ask for it. I can't guess and I can't fill in the blanks, and while we can dicker and we can negotiate, that is what it begins with. I can take a stab at knowing what you want," Gwilym lifts and drops his chin again in the direction of your leg, "but the words have to come from you. And then we see where we go from there, oes? So."
     He smiles, and the single visible eye glitters, and the shadows darken around him, for all that he doesn't straighten up or release his hold on the brandy bottle. "Why have you summoned me, King of Oak and Summer?"

     "I am looking for ... express healing. My energy is waning, which is delightful. Right when I need it most." The clattering of his crutches punctuates his words, and the truth of the frustration that underlies them. "And while Tanira was able to assist the bone is knitting, it remains broken, now a compound fracture," he says, pausing to settle on the sofa. He sits slowly and carefully. He has become an expert in getting up and sitting down.
     He is paler for that moment of exertion and he frowns as he settles his leg straight out upon the ottoman in front of him. Twisting, he sets his crutches to lean against the sofa. "I would like the leg to be healed completely, if possible," Balthazar asks you plainly. "I understand that you might have a way of doing so."
     He doesn't ask about compensation, though what it will cost him and how much is certainly on his mind. "I do not think I can afford to be sidelined for eight weeks during this transition. It is too important." Amber eyes fix on you. "King of Holly and Shadows, Autumn and Winter. Would this be a favor you could grant?"

     "It is possible, oes. All things are possible, turned on their side enough. But you will have to enter my realm." Gwilym slides to his feet, taking the bottle with him. He draws at it, then exhales, the one emerald green eye fixed upon you unwinkingly, now. "And ... you will have to put faith in me, risking all to gain what you ask for. It will not be comfortable; my realm is not a comfortable place for Spring and Summer."
     The bottle is emptied in a long, long swallow, raw spirits pouring down his throat. He does not blink, he does not sputter; he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tosses the bottle aside. It lands on its side to roll under a table, ignored by him.
     "Make a list in your mind of everything you want from me, be it large or little. And when you are ready," a golden coin glitters as it flies from Gwilym's hand through the air to your lap, "drop this to the ground, and it will transport you to within my boundaries. You will need to make your way to my Seat, there. You will not find it more arduous than it must be, of that I give my word." And he watches you, with that one eye visible, the other hidden perpetually, and he waits to hear what you will say and see what you will do.
     Where are my Huugin and Munnin? What ever else you may be doing, now is the time for you to stop. Go to the Wood where the thorns do not die, and wait for the Sun King's arrival. My way is, as it was and ever shall be, a bloody way, as it was my father's before me...

     ...Wither or Where...
          Foul... or Fair...
     Their voices come to the Holly King's ears from different corners of the universe, near and far.
     One great raven, black-beaked, black-eyed, black-humored, dives upon a merchant's wife, carrying off a talon of treasure. The Other tosses a cigarette onto a London street and disappears with a smirk down an alley.
     The Perilous Forest of legend and lore is thick with barbed holly and ivy and thorns. The thorns are blood-red and tangled with white-berried mistletoe. It is a labyrinth, to be sure. There are angles where copses open up just enough for passage, and in the center of this tangled maze of ivy, holly and thorn there is a clearing and a holly-wood throne.
     The thorns bear blossoms, tangles of roses that are the sweetness and the beauty of Life. And for each petal, the prick of a thorn to remind one of Life's Harsh Realities. But in the midst of Peril, Wonder can be found.
     Like strolling Hitchcocks, the two ravens gambol on the forest's soft floor, bouncing upward to take their rightful perch on the throne itself.
     We wait your pleasure, the Aeron bird says.
     Ugh. Get a room. Is that all you do?

     He knew a test was coming. Though he is in sunset mode, there is tremendous resolve in his eyes. "As long as I don't have to crawl or climb. Or run. Besides, I'm already uncomfortable." He takes up the coin, looking at it as you speak. "I trust you, Holly King. That you are hospitable and fair, no one can argue differently." Balthazar turns the coin over and over in his fingers, showing the natural and inherited deftness, the agility that comes from a long line of thieves.
     I want my broken bone restored properly, to its rightful healthy condition. I ask the Holly King for his grace.
     Fingers press the gold as he holds his questions to himself, his heart, to keep his intentions clear. Balthazar looks to his uncle only briefly, the gold glittering from finger to finger to finger.
     I want to understand The Game. To improve my political knowledge. I ask the Holly King for his expertise.
     I want to understand my darker energy. To focus it for the greatest purpose. I ask the Holly King for his wisdom.
     Balthazar squeezes the coin in his hand, holding it tightly there as he twists and reaches for the crutches. He holds it securely as he begins to push himself to a propped stand. I want to be able to learn from my failures. I ask the Holly King for his Humor.
     Lifting his right hand from the golden crutch's grip, Balthazar tosses it to the floor, his golden wings unfurling, preparing for... he knows not what.

     Don't fight over me, boyos, the Holly King cracks wise. Plenty to go around. Places people. The Oak King approaches.
     Gwilym smiles at you for your requests, but you receive no answers. Not here. Not yet. He gestures, and a harsh wind springs up, biting and bitter cold. It stings where it hits and makes the eyes water to the point of blindness. And when it passes, he is no longer there.
     Neither, for that matter, is your room. You are in a glade where the last faint rays of summer shine, green and lush but tinged by hoarfrost around the edges. Beyond is a wild and thorny wood, petals of autumn roses drifting past on the not infrequent breeze. There are paths within; multiple. None look precisely inviting in the way of brothel doors or summer picnics, but they are there. They are not even blocked from view.

     So which is the way, he wonders to himself, to the universe. He seeks not answers from the Holly King -- for he would not answer -- but an indication from his own source of power. His intuition. Balthazar glances down each path into the thorny wood, choosing ...finally... the path on the right...
     He moves slowly forward, making sure the feet of the crutches grip the earth solidly, testing the way -- be it stiff or slick.
     ... We pick over the bones of your love, the Aeron raven says, his voice internal only, not giving his location away.
     Well, what he does with your bones... I don't wanna know about it...
     Petals of roses are fragrant and thick, and blossoming vines hang heavily, disguising thorny boughs. As Balthazar moves forward along one of the paths to the east, he ducks his head, tucking his wings instinctually. They dissolve against his back with the tremble of shimmering sunlight. And his clothing changes, the cloth too easily tugged and ripped. He should like to be dressed at the end of the trail. He leaves his upper body bare, expending only just enough energy to change the cotton lounging pants to golden chain, his left leg covered only in the cast.
     One raven squats upon the crown of the throne while the other hops down and mimics the calls of songbirds before breaking off into cackling hawkish laughter.

     As incorrigible as always. The Holly King appears before his throne; a wave of his hand calls forth a table, laden with the foods of the harvest and the hunt. He moves to his throne, settling upon it, much changed in the span of moments.
     Already his leather is gone, replaced by the heavy mantle of his armor. It is blacked, as befits a prince who fights with darkened shield, as does he. His sword jingles slightly in its sheath, and the thorn crown tangled in his red-gold hair may not add years to his age, but the look in his eyes as they see past and through the world adds centuries.
     My way is a bloody way...
     "We won't make it extra hard on him," Gwilym says aloud to his ravens. "But it will not be easy. He will come, he will eat at my table, and he will receive the answers he's asked for. And then, if he still wishes it, I will heal him, in the way that things have to be for the things which must happen."
     He holds out one hand, palm down, armored and gloved wrist offered to whichever raven or both may wish it. "He suffers. But this, too, is necessary. Summer has ended, and the Oak King must give way to Holly."

     It is Aeron who takes his rightful perch upon his lover's hand. Oh, he knows that the Holly King does not play favorites, but he is favored. Bran hops on the throne, squatting on his master's arm.
     Is there a challenge you would have us offer? Aeron wonders, tilting his corbin head to peer at his King.
     Bran is curious on that as well. Antsy, he begins to preen, lifting one talon to scratch the side of his head.

     Balthazar looks left and right as he moves, thorns peeking out from the petals and dragging against his skin. This way is a bloody way. Humbled, on crutches, the embattled King eases around stone and log, continuing down the path.
     He feels the scratching of the thorns, of the close-in holly leaves, each one tipped with barbs. Tinne, it is called in Ireland. It means: good in a fight. He looks ahead, looks to the path, but in his mind's eye he sees battles ahead.
     He sees himself in autumn brass armor, glowing in the firelight of struggle and challenge. He sees his crest turn from white to red, even as his eyes have darkened from golden sun to ruddy amber. But there is no hesitation. There is no cowardice or fear. Balthazar moves ahead, steadily, neither too fast nor haltingly slow.

     "Challenge? No. He will ask his questions, and he will pay the price. Look you - surely the two of you know what price Oak pays to Holly, this time of year? It is the same price that I will pay to him when my season is done. But it is bloody, and it is painful, and it is something that none who love either of us should see."
     Gwilym sounds amused as he says it, though the words hold no hint of jest. He lifts his hand to shoo Aeron to a better perch, rising again to his feet. A hand settles casually on the hilt of his sword. He comes now. You may each of you ask him one question, one riddle, or one tribute - I grant you this, as part of the road he must walk. Go to, ravens, and do your duty. I will remain here, for when he arrives.
     He scratches his jaw, then rips from his head a strand of red-gold hair, casting it to the earth. Where it falls springs from the loamy soil a massive tree, and the Holly King draws his sword. In his hands, it becomes an axe; and, grasping its hilt, he steps towards the tree and draws back the bitted blade.

     Adrenaline rises, gleaming against the chain that clings to his hips and right leg, as Balthazar continues. His focus returns to his environment as the path twists and turns, even dips a bit and climbs...
     Ravens wings flutter, feathers and shadows filling the air as they roost upon thorn boughs and holly, picking at berries until the juice drips down like blood. So theatrical. Well, to be fair, Bran's voice drags out as he stamps upon the leaves, crushing the crispy remains of trees to fragments in his talons, we've never had an Oak King for you to challenge. So I'm not sure we do know.
     You are actually raising a valid point...
     ... I know... I have those occasionally, brawd...
     Aeron dives at his brother before lifting in wingbeats to land upon a nearby yew. I believe in the stories, you kill one another. But.... no harm, no foul. You get resurrected. I assume you are only going to metaphorically kill him.
     There is a clattering and chiming, both metallic, both unnatural. They are in counterpoint to one another. Clatter. Chime. Clatter. Chime. And they mark the pace of the Oak King's approach.
     Metaphors are real, here. Haven't you noticed? The axe thuds into the tree's trunk amid a shower of leaves and lesser twigs. Gwilym grunts and pulls the blade out of the wood, only to do it again. There are many stories in the worlds we inhabit. We are men, but we have inherited roles older than we are, ourselves.
     Again the axe rings out; the sound carries well in the stillness, though even an uninitiated pair of eyes can tell that these woods are far from empty, far from being devoid of life. Gwilym continues to chop, saving his breath for the work. We cannot be only men, with these crowns upon our heads. No more can any king be only a man, save perhaps when he is alone with his bedded lover, and even then only in the moments of passion where thoughts of our crowns and the duties attendant can finally be put aside. And he and I are in particular bound to one another in ways neither of us would have chosen for the other, nor for ourselves. But it is what it is, oes? And neither of us shirk what we must do. Well, not anymore.
     The tree falls at last, crashing to the earth so that everything vibrates and shakes. The table holds up, the food barely spilling at all. Gwilym wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, and he allows the axe to become a sword once more. He rests the tip against the trunk, both gloved hands on the hilt as he looks at the still freshly oozing sap. "We have bound ourselves to follow the High King rather than be separate from it, because we believe in what he stands for and what he strives to achieve. In this I do not know if Balthazar is bound by blood as well as by choice. I was bound by blood while Iowerth was on the throne; when my twin steps down from it, blood turns to choice more than blood alone. Fortunately, we are not the sorts to take choice less seriously than blood, or not as a rule."
     He looks to the mouth o the clearing, waiting for the Oak King's arrival. "To answer your question by my own rules, lads, I will take from him his life."

     The ravens launch skyward at the felling of the tree, rising above the din and vibration, squawking loudly. Murder! Mayhem! They roost quite forebodingly upon the crown of the Holly King's throne, like squat sentinels of the End of Days. Glittering black eyes focus upon the opening of the clearing, their talons gripping the wood with a groan.
     Clatter and chime, the Setting Sun can be seen, shimmering in the remains of his light. Though wounded, still glorious. But his brightness is gone. His caramel complexion is striped with ruddy scarlet, the evidence of his passage through the thorn forest. He moves forward in unsmiling silence. Here to bend his knee (the one than can bend) to the King of Autumn and Winter.
     There is a sheen of sweat and the scent of honey. Remember the summer, it says. This is the most exertion he has had in days, and it shows. But he does not falter. He does not fade. Balthazar moves on his crutches to the edge of the fallen tree. He looks at it a moment, and then to you. "Your Majesty."

     The felled tree becomes one with the earth. It is not needed, here. Perhaps it goes somewhere that it is needed. Perhaps it does not. Who can tell? Gwilym nods as you arrive, gloved hands still holding the sword. "Hail, King of Summer Sun and Oak. Break bread at my table, and we will discuss the answers to your questions. And when you have dined, I will kill you."
     He does not look murderous. It comes out the way he might say and after dinner we'll watch some football. But that's not what he said. Gwilym smiles, but it is the Holly King that smiles, his eyes remaining still and grave. He waits for you to take your seat, and picking up a whetstone, he begins to sharpen his sword.

     Honeyed eyebrows lift as you mention dinner and...theater. But he doesn't smirk at the ritual. He accepts it. He gives his trust to you. With the clatter and chime of crutches and chain, Balthazar moves forward, heading for the table. He hops with a wince, balancing as he leans the crutches on the table and then negotiates his way into the chair.
     And it is a negotiation.
     Once seated, Balthazar takes his crutches and sets them down on the earth like the broken branches they are, sliding them under the table for safekeeping. "Thank you for your hospitality, King of Bounty and Secrets." His accent is florid and otherworldly. It lilts with phrasing angelic and Persian, as well as Welsh. His honey-gold hair, cut short, is thick and curls where perspiration occurred.
     Balthazar looks to the ravens and nods shortly. "Uncles." For who else would they be?
     One by one the ravens shove off the throne to land with two thumps upon the table. They do not pick at the food -- they are quite fastidious and mannerly -- but rather pace to and fro before the Wounded King, heads tilted, eyes peering at him. It's more than a little unsettling, but then that's the point.
     Eyebrows quirking up again, Balthazar looks from his corbin uncles to his Hollied Majesty. He waits for the king to join him.

     The sword is sheathed, and he moves from the stump to take his seat on his throne. Moss and ivy curl at his feet, and he sits as if the world moves out of his way when he does so. "Eat and drink your fill," Gwilym tells you. "And ask your questions. For so long as you are a guest at my table, I will endeavor to answer where I may and where I choose."
     He wouldn't be the Holly King if he didn't leave himself some outs. His smile is enigma itself, but there is no hint of malice or duplicity to it. And he lifts a hand, motioning for you to eat, to drink, as you wish.

     Balthazar pours himself a goblet of the fig and mandrake wine, the scent is potent in the air. The ravens cackle laughter. Well, he's no coward, they squawk in unison. Amber eyes watch them with care -- he trusts you, them? Them, he watches as he takes an apple, a quince, and buttered bread. "I had three questions, or requests I suppose you could call them," he says, a golden knife appearing in his hand to cut the apple into manageable slices. "And one aside."
     "I want my broken bone restored to its rightful healthy condition. I ask the Holly King for his grace..."
     "I want to understand The Game. To improve my political knowledge. I ask the Holly King for his expertise."
     Amber eyes fix on his Hollied Other, unshrinking, though he sits upon the sacrificial stone of your table. The apple is sweet. It belongs to both of you and neither of you.
     "I want to understand my... darker self, energy. To focus it for the greatest purpose rather than wallow in it. I ask the Holly King for his wisdom."
     Setting the golden knife aside, he takes a bite of the apple, washing it down with fig and mandrake essence. Balthazar looks to his uncles, all.
     "I want to be able to learn from my failures. I ask the Holly King for his Humor. Those are the items most desired. They are... admittedly... broad. And unfortunately open to interpretation," his mouth nearly twitches into a smile. "But... that's what is facing me. So... you know it all."

     "Healing can only happen after the pain," Gwilym answers you. He regards you with a heavy and meditative gaze, unblinking in his assessment of you. "It is the item which must happen last on your list. We will begin, then, with failure, to go in reverse order. My kingdom has many reversals." His smile is slow, but there is the cunning of Winter present in his eyes, the knowledge of the madness which lies just the other side of cunning. Yes, he knows of reversals.
     He does not follow your lead in having fig and mandrake wine. He does not eat nor does he drink; this meal is laid upon for you. "Some people will tell you that the only true failure is if you stop trying. We both know that's a load of bollocks, but there is a grain of truth in it, as there is in most bollocks. We try; we succeed, we fail. Sometimes we can take something out of our failures, learn from them, even turn them around to make them become successes, but as fortune-cookie as that sounds, I can't tell you anything more specific unless you tell me more specifics first."
     Gwilym settles back, putting his booted feet up on his end of the table, watching you. "Which failures do you fear the most, and which do you need to learn from, that my Humor will benefit you best?"

     "I am not like you," Captain Obvious states quietly, pulling apart the buttered bread. "I am not cunning. I am not political in nature. It chose me. I didn't choose it. And my lack of such acumen, in what I feel I shall face, is a failure right out of the gate." He picks at his food more than he eats it. He must be nervous or upset if he's not eating.
     "At least if I had your wit I could laugh at myself about it. Where your Humor comes in is that... Trickster spirit. Of being able to take a failure and turn it on its head to laugh at its ass. I don't have that. I have faith in my ability to sing and to fight. But the rest of it? I feel outmatched and out-gunned, uncle. I mean, Your Majesty. I'm not sure I can be the ambassador or advisor or gloved right hand that my brother will need me to be."
     The ravens -- surprisingly -- hold their peace. It's your table, your turn to speak. They do, however, manage to steal away some bits of food, figs and cherries. They spit out the stones. What manners!

     He listens to you, calm and unflappable. He is comfortable here; perhaps one of the only ones who can truly be at ease within the Holly King's borders. When you have finished speaking, he opens his mouth and not before. "Well, I will begin by pointing out the obvious," Gwilym answers you easily. "Your brother does not need you to be me. He already has me. So stop worrying about not being me, or being like me, and focus on your strengths."
     He doesn't end it there; he knows that would be insufficient to set you at ease, let alone answer your concerns. "Can you stand to learn more about it? Oes, of course. This is an entire arena in which you've previously not fought, and you've had little interest in fighting. Fortunate, isn't it, that you don't have to do every damned thing yourself? Find people who do it well and make them your friends, your allies, your servants, your employees. You have at least one seneschal, don't you? Start there. Seneschals know what is going on because they have to. If he is loyal to you, then you can use him - and if he is not loyal, then best you find out before you trust him with more and ever more important tasks."
     He lets you take that in for a moment, holding a hand out for one of the ravens. In his hand there is suddenly a gobbet of raw flesh, still dripping slightly with blood. "Laughing at oneself is a valuable thing," Gwilym concedes. "Take yourself too seriously and you'll lose sight of what's real. But the opposite can also be true; the Fool's cap and bells can be used to hide, to defend, but also to run away. I am the perfect Fool, so I know well my strengths and my weaknesses." He smiles at you, the slanting, wild grin of his kind, the one emerald eye glinting. "I am the Fool, and I am the Magician, but I am no longer the Hanged Man; that role I have passed, and it seems to have been given to you, now. Is your head spinning yet, Oak King?"

     Balthazar looks up at you. "What else is new? My head is constantly spinning, uncle. Just when I think I have a portion known, or at least a confidence in myself and my direction, the universe tilts and I'm off-balance all over again. I would like to have a whole season where I felt like I knew what I was doing and doing the right thing. Or at least believed it."
     Aeron defers to his brother for the first bite of raw flesh. He has had enough favors for the day, after all. He peers at Balthazar with his unblinking eyes as Bran gobbles meat past his gullet.
     "I have several, yes. And ...I guess it's fortunate. I just feel I should be better. At least proficient. I don't feel very competent in that arena. But I'm good at finding the strengths in others." He pauses a bit. "So could you explain the Hanged Man to me? You're talking tarot, right?"
     Balthazar eats a couple of slices of apple, a bit of the buttered and honeyed bread. He washes it down with another swallow of the potent wine.

     "Tarot, oes," Gwilym agrees, resting one booted foot atop the other. He folds his hands behind his head now, watching you lazily. "The Hanged Man waits for enlightenment. He dangles, upside-down, from a branch of a tree, without food or drink or comfort, alone. In time he becomes divorced from what he has perceived as reality, and thus enlightenment has room to move in. So the cards say, at least. Time of trial, meditation, selflessness, sacrifice, prophecy. The Querent stops resisting; instead he makes himself vulnerable, sacrifices his position or opposition, and in doing so, gains illumination. Answers that eluded him become clear, solutions to problems are found. He sees the world differently, has almost mystical insights."
     One hand comes forward to wave the words away. "You're in the Between, right now. You're seeking answers, seeking enlightenment. You're also in a period of transition in more ways than one - you're the Sun King, the Oak King, but your season is ending, ended. You're also transitioning from prince at large to filling some very specific roles, and, what you're probably not as consciously aware of, you're not yet fully settled into being the Oak King. It's important for both of us to remember that the roles we fill, fulfill, are larger than we who fulfill them." Gwilym takes another strip of raw meat from somewhere, Nowhere, tossing it onto the table. It lands there with a wet squelch. "That will not become truly, really clear to you for a while yet. It takes time to sink in. That isn't a failing in you, it's just the nature of things. Like getting married or any other life-altering commitment, it takes a while for the true enormity of it to sink in, for good, for ill, for better, for worse."
     Gwilym looks you up and down. "You need to find your own center, and stop worrying about which way the world turns. If you're grounded in your own reality, it doesn't matter so much what the rest of the world does. I think it will help when you have a place of your own to claim as yours - all this floating around is all well and good, but that is for princes, not for kings. You need your territory, and you need to make your claim. Without roots, you're blown arse over tits with every sudden storm."

     Aeron gobbles up the sweet meat, the bloody flesh sliding down his throat. He and Bran hop upon talons, launching upward to then roost upon each of Gwilym's shoulders. They peer at the Oak King like squat sentinels of doom.
     He is still shiny and new...
          ...Yes, like a pebble spat out from the sea...
     Balthazar sits back with the goblet of wine. He glances to each bird in kind as they speak their poetic fragments. When they are your harbingers, your messengers, your ravens and rooks, they take on different patterns of speech. It is like they're in a trance almost. He sips at the wine, looking then into its fragrant darkness.
     "I thought I had it. I felt as though I had it. But now I feel that I wasn't as far as I thought. I felt very focused, very confident, and moved with a forthrightness that felt centered." Amber eyes lift to you. "But by the time I felt it, the winds changed direction, and now I feel as lost as I did after the first part of the ascension." Though that's not quite accurate; he doesn't fully believe it though he speaks it.
     Swallowing the draught of figs, Balthazar looks to his uncle Holly. "Plans for a citadel are underway. I'm not yet sure where I'm going to place it. On the outskirts of the Capitol, perhaps, but not too far. Maybe on the north island if I am to be out of the city itself. But I'm thinking more... like Rome and the Vatican. A city within a city, a place within a place."
     His lips form a smirk. "I was literally blown ass over tit. So... yes, I understand what you mean. All too well." He has the cast to prove it! With an exhale of thought, he leans against one side of his chair. "So the Hanged Man... gives up all semblance of purpose and control and the universe moves him where he needs to be? He gives up Attachment to find Enlightenment." He asks it in the form of a statement. "So I shouldn't wonder, and I shouldn't do, but I should ask and wait."
     Two things he's horrible at. Great.
     "I'm not sure whether to pick my nose or scratch my bum, honestly," Balthazar exhales again, leaning forward to set his drink aside. "How will I know when to surrender and when to do?"

     Something is missing; he knows what. Serving maids. He snaps his fingers, and there is a graceful bow of limbs as the trees bend in a sudden wind. From the trees' bent trunks there step out a trio of lithe maidens, their skin the white of willow and birch, their hair as red and gold as the Holly King's himself. The gold and brown silks they wear are barely sufficient to keep them clad, and they move forward to dangle upon Gwilym's shoulders, to take up food and drink to offer to him, and then to the guest at the Holly King's table.
     "It's hard to be patient, oes? Especially when there is so much going on. But there is always much going on, and we none of us can be everywhere at all times. If we cannot comprehend ourselves in the Now," he grins, "listen to me, I sound all zen and shite - then we won't comprehend ourselves when fifty million things are all ticking along at once and we're getting ready to march off to wage war. And no offense, but you're what? Twenty? Twenty-one? The odds of you fully understandin' yourself are slim and none. I'm pushing twice your age and I barely have a clue myself." He laughs, casually sliding an arm around the waist of a nymph. She smiles, leaning against his shoulder and revealing sharp white teeth.
     The nymphs of the Holly King seem only distantly related to those of the field and forest, those found in the more civilized kingdoms. The hospitality they offer is paired with smiles but a restraint, of sorts, a feral alertness as they size you up and consider their actions. For now, at least, they are hands off, save to offer you food, and drink, and to place themselves on display. Gwilym takes up a cup, drinking from it. "But you want to understand politics, and you say you want to understand The Game. If you want to, you need to give me examples of what you don't understand. Neither of us has time for discussions that long."

     Balthazar is not unused to seeing beautiful barely-clad women. He looks at them, but he does not stare or gape or sit there open-mouthed. He recognizes them, their feral beauty, and then returns his attention to what's really important. "I'm twenty-one. I guess I just expected that this...whatever it was, ascension or whatever would make things make more sense, but the opposite is true. What I thought I knew, I don't really know. And there's so much happening, so much I have to know, that I feel myself failing at everything. Well, apart from blowing things up," he tips back his glass, murmuring at the rim. "I excel at that."
     Amber eyes glance to the 'fox women' around him as he leans forward to set his empty cup down. "Earlier, I was having a discussion with my father, with Tiernan," he clarifies that, "...about how to better handle my resting period, forced as it was. And he came up with at least a hundred things I should be considering, or should start to consider, all very political, and none of them had even occurred to me..."
     "... He suggested that I use this time to, as he said, assemble the pieces. And while my enemies are looking to rumor, to pay what price I must to gain the most by it. Instead of doing he said, I should concentrate on scavenging and harvesting what I may during my "low" season and build upon it until it is all in place. That's what Autumn and Winter are for. Well, he might as well have said this all in Greek for what I understand of it. I haven't the slightest idea, one, what he means or, two, how to achieve it. It is just not my nature. Or it hasn't been. Those sorts of politics or game playing don't even occur to me. Which leads me to think I'm going to be a pretty wretched King. I'm not even sure how good a general I'm going to be, honestly. My physical attributes are seeing me through; those are substantial. But one can only get by so long on dexterity and charm."
     He has no idea...
     With the arrival of the women, and the start of this topic, in particular, the ravens scatter and transform into identical (appearing), leather-clad men. Bran waggles his eyebrows at the girls. (He's spoken for! Sort of! But he's not dead!) Aeron sits at the end of the table, paying more attention to the issue at hand. He glances to Gwilym but says nothing.
     "You ... well, all of you," Balthazar continues, gesturing to Bran and Aeron as well, "... were seemingly born in the shadow of rolling dice. You not only understand The Game, its pitfalls, but you can see the Probability of Outcomes. I don't have that gift naturally. So how do I develop it without making a complete mess of court?" His caramel complexion goes ruddy with his emotion and frustration. "I just don't think the way father thinks, I don't see what he sees. How do I develop that sense?"

     These are the nymphs of Autumn and of Winter, their leaves in disarray. Their beauty is apparent, but their charms less accessible - unless, of course, you happen to be the Holly King. "Tiernan is an engineer. Makes sense he'd look at the pieces and at the schematics. You're not an engineer, you'll have your own way of seeing things, oes? And your parents sheltered you from some of the harsher realities of the political world. He wasn't sheltered, y'know - of course, he had no choice. Not surprising they handled you differently." Gwilym pats one of the nymphs on the fanny, and she bares her teeth at him in an arch, sharp smile. "Look, you - one of the benefits of being a King is that you can determine and define for yourself who and what is allowed in your own court, within limits. You only have to let outsiders in just as much as they have sommat that you need; that's where the politics begin."
     He sets down his cup, allowing the ravens to be men and ravens at the same time, giving them little of his attention. They are there, and they can speak for themselves if they choose; the nature of the occasion holds its own weight and pressure upon them. "You have more of it in you than you think you do. You just haven't begun to use that sense for this. Look you, Balthazar - when you were in London, booking gigs, you had to develop an awareness of who wanted what, who'd get what out of which, and who'd work well with the band and who wouldn't, oes? You may have made mistakes here and there, but by and large you were successful. You could have been a big star if you'd wanted, but Fate took you down a different road. How did you do that? How did you figure out which club owners were trying to go out of their way to rip you off, and which ones you could work with?"
     Gwilym shrugs, putting his feet up again and settling back. "It is not precisely the same. But the first step is always the same, that of assessing motive. Does he or she like me for myself or for what he or she can get from me? Who are her people, who are her known connections? How might their desires and interests shape what she does? For us, we are suspicious, nasty-minded, cynical bastards." His lips twist into a wretched grin. "You are not, and you will thus think my saying this means you must dwell on it night and day. But you don't need to. You give it a moment's thought, and then you wait and see what he or she does. And periodically, you revisit it, and see if the note that's played is true or false."
     The Holly King exhales, face turned up to the sky in all its beauty - face and sky alike. "You are not going to make a mess of court," he points out patiently. "First off, some of the biggest pitfalls you will not fall into because you cannot. They cannot seduce you if you are not willing to be seduced. They cannot crawl into your bed, and while they can attempt to mislead you, give you wrong information and so on, you talk to your brother and your fathers and your uncles often enough to have a yardstick by which to measure the information you receive. So sure, occasionally you might make a small misstep, but really, how far can that really go? You don't have the power to declare war without it being ratified by the Throne, except in your role as Oak King, and unless the war you're declaring is against me, you'd probably ask me for my input to see what I've heard first, anyway. And if it is against me, you're still more likely to talk to someone - your fathers, if not your grandparents, first. So is there room for misstep? Sure. It's a wide and woolly world out there. But you have time to examine things before you take actions, and if you do leap here or there, it's unlikely to become cataclysmic. Now, if you want to learn how to do things so that you never make a misstep - can't help you there, even if I kill you, you'll still be only human."
     He shakes his head. "Learning probabilities is not a mystic ability - well, it can be. But most of the time, it's a matter of observation and experience," Gwilym notes. "So - start watching, and start keeping track. Or don't, and assign the job to someone you trust. Either way."

     Like your father before him, he thinks he has to carry the entire universe. His shoulders are broad, but not broad enough for that. He listens to you, he looks at you, and he considers what you say. "So...essentially I should just relax. I'm starting to think that's sort of the answer to everything I've asked." His full lips make a twist of a smirk. At least he does have a sense of humor about himself. Balthazar exhales as he settles back, his hands folding against his bare stomach.
     "I just overreacted, I guess. I heard him bringing up ... all of that and figured: well, I didn't know that, what the hell am I doing? And... you're right, I am able to judge and consider what I see. I'm no dummy. I'm pretty astute. I'm not Gruffydd but I'm pretty astute."
     That's two of four down...
     "We are down to focusing my setting-sun energy, to keep self-destruction to a minimum, and healing my leg. And then...you killing me." Balthazar looks to you levelly as he says that. He is not sure if you are being literal or metaphorical about that last part, but he does not shrink. While he may doubt his intellect, there is no doubting his resolve and bravery.
     Leaning forward, Balthazar reaches for the bottle of fig and mandrake wine. He does so without wavering, without stumbling, without slurring. Aeron lifts an eyebrow, quietly impressed. Still, he does not speak. He is waiting, holding his opinion for now.
     Bran chuckles: "Nephew, are you quite certain you want to do that?"
     Amber eyes shift to Bran. "To those who are about to die, should they not be saluted? I should like to be somewhat numb for my end of days, uncle." Balthazar glances to Aeron and then rests his attention on Gwilym, giving his Hollied Uncle his full attention.

     He smiles slightly, but he does not encourage nor does he discourage. You will go to the gallows in a way of your own choosing. "You do not seem self-destructive to me - or, no more than usual," Gwilym remarks lazily. The one glittering emerald eye winks at Aeron, and he idly pinches the nipple of the autumn maiden on the arm of his chair. "The truth is, both Holly and Oak have their moments. It is good not to despair, but it is difficult not to. I wrestle with it myself - Aeron thinks, hopes that there being an Oak King in opposition will balance me. I am skeptical of it."
     He speaks freely of that, for it gives nothing away which he need keep in reserve, with friend or with foe. His golden cup tilts, and he drinks, but not deeply. "I think it is a battle we fight within ourselves because it is the way that we express our mortality. We are human, but we are other than human; there is a struggle there which cannot be entirely balanced. We have good days and bad, good years and bad, and with the years rolling out ahead of us, there will be many such. But the good generally outweighs the bad, as long as we remember to have the sense of proportion to remind ourselves of it, or to keep someone near us to do that for us. And, sometimes, the struggle will be harder and darker than others. Learn from it, and try not to be afraid of it, but darkness is a part of your year as it is mine."

     Aeron smiles at that. Numbness is not always the blessing it seems. "We are all hopeful creatures, in one way or another," he slowly states, his voice sing-song. I am curious as to the effects, for both of you. You are anchored to one another. The question remains: will you be anchored by one another. Time will tell."
     Now it is Bran who is silent. He's too busy watching the bared nipple of one of the Autumn maidens stiffen at the coaxing of the King.
     Balthazar doesn't even seem to notice the maidens, or that one is having her breast teased by his uncle right across from him. "Have you any advice on how to handle such despair or doubt? I find myself doubting everything, easily frustrated. Of course, this is my first go-around. I have no idea what to expect or what, even, I am becoming. Summer sun is gone. Autumn, winter -- who knows. I don't feel like I did a week ago, certainly not a month ago. Before, I couldn't imagine defeat. I was gleaming, amazing, confident and strong. Now? I feel broken. Doubtful. Easy to vanquish. I don't think that's true, but that's what I feel. What does autumn mean to the Oak King? I guess I'll have to ask grandda. He was the last one to serve. I just feel... a bit pitiful really. And I don't like it. It's hard to accept, hard to tolerate."
     His questions aren't meant to stall the inevitable. Balthazar drinks, his swallows healthy, not the middling sips of a time-waster. "Would you be willing to answer a question about my impending doom? I realize I have expended my original requests. If not, I accept things as they are."

     His hands move as lightly as a thief's against the woman's skin, teasing here, tweaking there, plucking and stroking until she quivers. His attention remains on you, though, even when he tugs her casually into his lap. He does not need to pay attention for his hands to know where to go and what to do; that is purely incidental. "You've always been prone to despair and to doubt. This isn't created by becoming the Oak King; it may exacerbate it, but this was in you from the beginning," Gwilym points out, one hand sliding between silken thighs. "I won't insult y' by presenting a laundry list of occasions. The difference is that if you're not careful, you'll struggle against and with your own power, and use it to self-flagellate. We share that much. Sorry."
     "Da won't really be able to give you the right answers. Oes, he was the Oak King, but he was the Oak and the Holly at the same time. Your da, my twin, held the power only for a very short time; in him as with da it was subsumed in becoming High King, and he set the power free." There is for a moment a flicker of something; regret, or pain, or anger, it isn't clear. An old shadow, passing for a moment over his face, nothing more.
     "You are not me and my answers cannot match you exactly, but there is a tendency to isolate; to ignore or stubbornly refuse the obvious truths for as long as possible," Gwilym tells you. "It takes a steady head to act. And acting can hurt, or mean risking hurt. In any case, I am a generous man, but I think you are asking in some cases the wrong questions, and you are being too general and too vague with some of your questions. If you want help with specifics, you need to ask for specifics. Generalities will only see you through just so far. As for impending doom - ask. I may not choose to answer. Your fate is as it must be."
     The nymph is squirming, moaning in his lap by this time, flushed with pleasure, arousal and wanting desire that parts her darkened lips. Gwilym ignores her reactions, gloved hands drawing away as he gently pushes her from his lap. He lifts his goblet and pours the dark red wine over his fingers, letting it run from the leather and sparkle where it lands.

     "Vague generalities are all I know to ask. I do not know enough about what is happening to even know what specifics to ask about. I have had the power for what...three months, tops? So... this is the best I could do on short notice. My question is not the condition or anything really about the process. It is as it is and will be as it will be. I am curious, however, as to what you think I might become afterwards. Death is transformation. Going from one state to another. Living to dead, yes, but then... what? What is the hope that you have for it?"
     Not what he should hope; but what do you stand to gain? What do you hope to see or find or experience? It is an interesting point-of-view he has.
     Bran and Aeron look to Balthazar with something of curiosity, perhaps even mildly impressed. They never mind the women, those Autumn fox maidens, and look directly to their nephew with dark and green glittering eyes.
     Balthazar looks to his uncles but though his is on the spot he does not flinch. He drinks deeply of the wine then leans forward to set the cup aside.

     "I have no real hope for it," Gwilym answers simply. "I do what I must. I would like to see you succeed, nephew, and oes, that is a hope, of sorts. I have bound myself to your brother by choice and not by obligation. I have taken a different road from your father; I do not begrudge him it, but it was a difficult choice, and it has continued to be difficult. My way is a dark and bloody way."
     He watches you and adds frankly, "Right now, at least, there is nothing which you could give me which I want. In future, that may change. I see no harm in helping you; there is room for gain for us both. You will not truly die - and a good thing too," there is a brief gimcrack return of that streaking beautiful smile, "I don't want to have to face your parents if I'd killed y' for good. As it is, if they find out about it they're none too likely to be pleased with me, but that is the risk I must take upon myself."
     He wipes his gloves off on a serviette, rising to his feet. "I hope that you don't stay dead." Gwilym smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. He's serious enough on that one. "Any other questions, Your Majesty? If not, then we have a date. Your neck, my sword."

     He starts to ask about his leg, but if he's about to die then a broken femur is the least of his worries. Balthazar does not ask any other questions. Quietly, he bends, grabbing the crutches. He situates himself, pushing the chair back with a twitch of a wince, and then he slowly pulls himself upward. He steadies himself on the crutches.
     As he steadies himself, preparing to move to his fate quietly and peacefully, Aeron and Bran both rise, tall specters in black. Aeron makes a motion with his hand to dismiss the maidens. Time for play is over. The two ravens are solemn in aspect and energy.
     Clatter and chime. The crutches make their racket as the Oak King approaches. The golden chainmail seems loose about his hips but they are firmly in place, gleaming against his powerful right thigh (his left thigh is covered only by a cast. Balthazar looks at you. "I accept my fate, Holly King," he says softly, solemnly. His golden wings shimmer from his back, slipping out and thudding behind him.
     Ten feet in front of you and your ravens, Balthazar pauses. He straightens and then suddenly tosses the crutches aside, balancing, hopping slightly in place. And then he just as suddenly falls. He lands in a plank position, his years of yogic and kama sutra training coming in very handy. Balthazar props himself up on the palm of his hands, his legs stretched out behind him. His right leg is outstretched completely, the ball of his foot buries and anchored in the earth. His left leg is not flexible, cannot be easily controlled. His toes are flexed, the ball of his left foot on the ground. It is painful, the most pain he has felt since it occurred, and his skin goes pale. He trembles, but he does not complain. And like a songbird offering himself up to dawn, his wings spread in supplication.

     He straightens, and he draws his sword. His expression holds compassion in it, but also the grim stoicism that is his by birthright. One emerald eye remains fixed upon you as his blade catches the light of the sinking sun. We grow, we die, we are reborn.
     If it is not answer enough, it will have to do. Gwilym stands over where you have fallen, and whatever sympathy he may feel does not show as pity. "Then, King of Oak, take what mercy I may give." The sword is lifted; it rises, and it is held as he closes his eyes, closes his voice so that you cannot hear, only his ravens may hear. This is one of the hardest things that has been asked of me.
     He does not shirk his duty. The sword falls, and it strikes true, aimed for the back of your neck. The only hope is that he has judged correctly, for in the move, he has gripped his sword with one hand upon the pommel and the other upon the base of the blade, the edge slicing cleanly through glove and skin and muscle beneath. The Holly King's blood runs along the metal down towards you, towards where he has struck.

     Love must prostrate itself, sacrifice itself, to be known. It gives, without asking for return. It surrenders, without thought of victory. And it conquers all in the end.
     Ravens leap upward, cawing loudly for the sacrifice of kings, and black birds launch upward from the surrounding forest...
     Blood falls hot upon Balthazar's skin. He keeps his eyes closed, his breath, his being given to the moment. He does not flinch, his body trembling only in his own pain and in holding the position steady.

     Where blood spills to the earth, it becomes a river, splitting the earth asunder. The water which fills the gulf is red as wine, red as the blood it was summoned by, and the sky is red as well with the painted hues of the setting sun.
     It does not burn; how, after all, can one burn hot enough to scald the sun? Instead, it is cold as ice, cold as charity as it runs over your skin. The grass where you lie turns dried and brown, the ground visible between the stalks. The wind that whips through the trees is cold and biting now, clouds moving over the face of the sky.
     If you were anyone else, your neck would be broken, your breath stopped for all time. If he were anyone else, his life would be bleeding out from severed veins and arteries alike. Instead, he straightens, pulling from your flesh the bloodied sword. He sighs, a heavy exhale made heavier for the weight of the fox-trimmed cloak that has appeared from his shoulders as the cold moves on and over and through you. "Rise, Oak King, from your grave. You have ceded to me the victory, and enough blood has been shed," he all but sing-songs to you. His voice is smooth and lyrical now, with none of the put-upon gruffness he pretends to. His youth is set aside for agelessness, his emerald eyes for once both visible as he steps back, sword lowered as he holds out his hand to you.
     The cast is splintered in ruins, frost turning it to decaying muck. Beneath it, you are whole in body, but in spirit and energy? Autumn has ascended. The Holly King holds out his hand to you, blood still staining his skin. His smile is smooth and enigmatic, and in his eyes are an entire world, peopled with forests of thorns.

     He trembles now not out of pain but out of the bite of winter air, air he was not prepared to face. Balthazar drops to his knees, the plank pose broken with a short exhalation. That would have been excruciating had his leg not been healed. The sun feels distant now. The universe is most silent after the nova of a star.
     He is paler, his summery caramel complexion faded further, his hair turned to a shock of autumn gold. Red streaks his skin, your blood, his blood -- it's all the same and doesn't matter. But even though the sun is eclipsed by the blood-red Hunter's Moon, that resolve is still there, held in the amber color -- that which invokes candlelight and fallen leaves. Balthazar reaches out with his hand -- beyond feeling the crispness against his unclothed left leg.
     Balthazar stands with a chime and a whisper, his body instinctively protecting what it last knew was a wounded limb. He slowly, gently applies weight and pressure, feeling....nothing. Nothing but the earth as it should be, flesh as it should be. And there is a quietude about him: the sun in repose. There is none of the pain of transition in him now. He stands there, enormous, beautiful, solemn, and now he is as ageless as you. Twenty-one and Forever.
     A grand metallic wing curves around to warm him (and to shield you from his partial nakedness, which you very well might not want to see, though it is glorious). The moment is outside of words, so he doesn't speak. Balthazar merely looks at you, thanks you, loves you.
     In the shimmering of wings, gold becoming a deeper bronze, his armor likewise changes, covering him in an amber, bronze steel.
     He makes a motion with his hand, touching his forehead (Third Eye), his mouth and then his hands come together in a steepled prayer pose. He bows slightly in honor, respect, and gratitude.

     He smiles slightly, but if he notices your nakedness, he shows no sign of it. You are on your feet again, and he motions to the earth and the air and the trees behind you. There is a creaking and a sighing, of trees and vines slithering out of the way to reveal, to form a path. You have laid down your crown for the half of the year which is his. He has no need, no reason to challenge in departures.
     "You have dined at my table and you have proven your bravery. What was needed is now done, and what will be needed lies yet ahead of us," Gwilym tells you. He turns away, the wing of hair falling to hide one eye yet again. It is in shadow; he peers through shadows and sees what moves and writhes there, in the darkest places, knowing them to be no match for the darkness he carries within himself. "Go in peace, King of Summer. Go to your lady and your lands, and to those who need you. I will be watching, as I ever do."
     Behind you, the way back to your brother's kingdom is open. It leads to your own suite just on the other side of his borders, as from where you were taken. Gwilym does not turn and he does not look back, and as small as the space between you and he is, it grows wider as a wall of thorned vines springs up to block him from your vision.

Posted by rowan at November 19, 2009 03:11 PM