He pats you on the back and takes the bottle. "Oes, well," Gwilym drawls, "we'll see about getting things worked out, oes? I have no complaints with you, brawd. Know that, at least." He settles back, watching the doorway. This is going to be either interesting or a catastrophe. Perhaps both.

     Fiona meanwhile heads back down, with a side trip by the kitchen to pick up some of the biscuits she's baked. One thing after all is as certain as love and taxes; in this family, food is always desired. She carries in the jar of them and sets it down on the table unceremoniously. "There. Your father should be down in just a moment. Balthazar's just getting dressed. How are you two boys getting on?"

     "Let's see," Bran says as he angles toward his mom and the promise of biscuits, "...we have whisky and biscuits. If that's not a recipe for world peace, then I don't know what is." That said, he promptly takes two biscuits and settles back with the bottle he and Gwilym are sharing.
     "So how did it go with Mr. Sunshine?" he wonders between bites. He glances to Gwilym. Diolch, brawd. I know I've been a bit of a thorn the last couple of years. You don't have to say it; I will. But ... anyway... sounds as though we're square so I'm good...

     Getting dressed...
     There are notions of getting dressed when it comes to Balthazar. The only think he's changed is the trousers -- they are still loose (he needs the extra room at the moment) and a bit more sturdy than the silken drawers of before. They are cotton, Egyptian naturally, and dyed a rich scarlet. They would crumple quite easily in the grasp -- the cotton is not stiff. But he is still without shoes, without shirt, without jacket or scarf.
     The wings are ceasing to become wings as one thinks of them in Romantic literature. There are no feathers, at this point there are no feathers comprised of flames. They are flares of solar fire and power, lifting and swirling, extending far behind him. The flares vary in color -- red, orange, gold -- but one thing is constant: the static of Love and Sex and Desire that fills the room whenever he enters. It is an electric kiss that makes the hair on the back of one's neck stand up, goosebumps appear on the skin and a certain opiate Delight that bubbles on one's blood.
     There is still a bit of Sorry, everyone in his approach, rather like he was boarding an airplane with too many carry-ons or carrying several crying babies. But he is, at least, no longer pinning it in. Apparently, he took his uncle's advice.

     Bran drops a biscuit and nearly chokes on the one in his mouth. "Holy shite. Uh.... hey there.... nephew. You look.... good."

     "You'll see for yourself," is the only ominous answer Fiona gives. She begins doling out cookies - eight per person, with an extra two on top of that for her husband, for when he gets there. She takes a seat and leaves room for him, a single cookie left in her possession. When Balthazar hoves into view, she notes, "One question, darling. Is your grandfather going to die if he walks into the room just now?"
     And she raises her eyebrows pointedly.

     I told y' he was going through some changes, Gwilym tells Bran, hiding a grin. He leans back to salute the Sun King in gradual ascendance. "Hullo, nephew. Come and have a set, oes? How're you doing?"
     Aeron, prepare the man-nymphs. Holy hell, but we're going to need them when I'm done here. He is, after all, a realist.

     Do tell... comes the purring voice of your absent raven. Are you feeling three, five or seven?

     Balthazar is still Balthazar. The expressions haven't changed a bit. He smiles to Gwilym but looks first to his nainie, his head tipping to the side. "I'm not actually on fire, so he should be fine. It's a bit early in the day yet though for him, is it not? The sun is still out." He smirks. "Hello, I am still Captain Obvious. Nothing has changed." He takes a seat near Gwilym, so he can face Bran. He looks at them both. "I'm doing better," he says. "I don't really like clothes at the moment, which is going to make things a bit awkward around the dinner table, but otherwise... I am... following your advice, uncle. I am still ah..." he glances to his nainie then goes sotto voce: ... unable to draw in my power without having an orgasm, but I guess if that's the worst thing I have to contend with, I shouldn't complain.
     He looks to Bran then: "Mind?" he gestures to the biscuits. "And don't anyone hug me, right now," he warns you all, "...unless you really want to show your appreciation for me. Thanks," he smiles to Bran as Bran passes over the whole container. Balthazar takes two and then leans forward to set the container back on the table. Long, flaring wings glance against the sofa and uncles perched there. They experience Love, like the softest hug and blanket ever until he sits back and stretches them behind him.
     Everything he does is erotic. How he sits, languorous. How he looks. How he eats. And he gives off a scent, like burning resin in a temple: amber, myrrh, cinnamon. He sighs as he polishes off a snack.

     Bran tries not to stare. "Uh... yeah. I'll try to avoid that. I don't want to get some sort of nephew-loving complex." He snorts a laugh, then smiles a bit. Hard not to when you're suddenly aware that you're in love. Next will be tears. "I guess we need to talk... ah... did Nainie start it out for me or do I need to start at the beginning?"

     "He's up. I woke him." Fiona smiles benignly at her boys - yes, all of them. And not one of them doesn't know her capacity for sudden and direct (even violent) action, benign smiles or no. "He'll be down once he's finished ... titivating. I told him you've brought a young woman home for whom you have feelings, and who the young woman is. The rest is up to you, dear." House rules, boyos...
     He isn't doing any hugging. Gwilym settles for a wave from his side of the coffee table. He bites his tongue hard on the talk of nephew-loving and finds somewhere else to look. Duw, the last thing I need is for that particular feline to escape from this particular woven canvas receptacle just now...

     Slumped down in his chair, his legs wide and relaxed, his elbow on the arm of the chair and his beautiful head propped up by his hand, Balthazar is the definition of a lazy summer day. He's the personification of it, rather. "From the sounds of things," he begins, "...the house is pretty crowded with people for whom feelings abound." He smiles. "At first I felt sorry for them. Now, I'm feeling a bit sorry for us."

     Bran snorts and vaguely wears an expression of Hey, did someone get the number of that truck. "Well, I don't know about who should be pitied," he quips. "I ... didn't know you were going to have the rest of the Wests with you. I guess I should have called or sommat. So," he puffs out, "... I guess we should sort out what to do. First of all... you know... I just want you to know, nephew," Bran's gaze is pointed now, "... that I didn't put it in her mind to leave off with you. I know it happened pretty quick," he clears his throat, "... after our argument. So I'm sure it looked a bit funny..."

     Balthazar glances to his nainie and to Gwilym in quick flashes of yellow-sun eyes, but then his attention rests on Bran. "I was at first. But ... then I realized it didn't really matter. I ... think I was already feeling this," he makes a motion to himself with his other hand. "And I really wanted to be loved. And I was trying to force something that really wasn't mutual. I loved her. She wasn't the slightest bit interested in me in that way. I just had never really been told No before. It was a bit of an ego bruise," he admits.

     The click-clack-click of dog toenails sound upon the marble as the harbingers of Doom, Brenin and Bau trot into the great hall. You know what that means. The Lord of the Manor has arrived. "Jesus fucking Christ, boyo," Davydd squints against the sun of Love, hopping over illusions of fire. "I need sunglasses just to look at you. Sweet lord. Hey," he grins to Gwilym and Bran. And then... he looks at his wife. He stares at her openly. "Afternoon, baban," he murmurs. "More presentable this time?" He's in more than a blanket and boxers at any rate. He's wearing the usual black trousers with a white button down shirt and a black suit coat. He's showered and shaved and is looking all sorts of keen.
     Giving Balthazar a wide-ass berth, Davydd circles around to give the missus a scrunch and a kiss on her cheek so as not to gross out the children. "This looks oddly civil..."

     She smiles, rising to greet her husband with a kiss that lands on his mouth before he can turn away. The hell with the children. "So far they've been playing by the Marquis of Queensbury's rules," Fiona notes to Davydd. "Actually, I don't think they're fighting at all. More like dancing."

     "Being told no always hurts. Never gets old." Gwilym grins sharply, then waves airily to his da. "Nos dda, papa. We're trying to figure out what to do about the wily Wests. Oh, and Balthazar's getting us drunk."

     Davydd smiles to Fiona, eyes crinkling in the corners, forever shy of forty. He glances over to the sofa detente. "I see that. You sure it's not the whisky?" A copper eyebrow cocks up at the sight of a bottle going back and forth.

     Balthazar smiles, sunlight in that, it's like the undressing of the universe. "Sorry," he says with a chuckle. He's not really -- or rather, even if he were, he'd be helpless to stop it. He glances to Gwilym and then looks primarily between him and Bran. "I don't really want to hash over all of that. It's time to put it in the past. I won't shake your hand, uncle," he grins to Bran, "... but ... I think we can put the past behind us. Serena and Gillian," he clarifies.
     "As for what to do?" Balthazar continues, rolling back in the chair to turn his attention to grandfather and grandmother as much as anyone, "... I've not the slightest idea. Madison knows there's magic. Loki knows there's magic. Preston knows. But I don't know if they all know that they know." He pauses to grin. "You know? I haven't gone into great detail. For one thing, when she's around me... we don't exactly spend a lot of time discussing things. We should," he says with a guilty grin and a roseate blush. Yes, guilty that look and on such an angelic face. "But... it hasn't been easy to do. She knows I have wings. She knows I'm an houri, of sorts, and she sort of knows what an houri is. But that's it. I've tried to talk about the ascension but her eyes start glazing over at that point... and then it all gets a bit... blurry..."

     Bran hides a giggle behind his hand, clearing his throat. "Yeah, I bet. You know... you could go blind. That's what da always told me." He gets serious all at once, his arms folding against his chest. "I'm not sure where to begin. Her universe has been... distorted," he decides upon. "I have been truthful, but within the confines of Trickery." He looks to his brother for support here. "I discovered her by trailing Loki... followed him and her into the London sewers. And then... I ....fell for her really. She was looking for a secret, so I gave her a little taste of one, a taste of what her world could be, her life could be. A lost Roman ruin. And I set things into motion at Oxford. As far as Oxford is concerned, within that universe, I am exactly what I say I am. And they have known me all along. When I leave, I won't even leave footprints in their memory. I won't have existed at all, and all the artifacts move with me. It's... what I do. So how do I be truthful now when everything heretofore has been predicated on a grand deceit?"

     Gwilym stirs and nods. But he doesn't say anything. He knows about Trickery and Deceit. Moving from that to honesty... He looks to his parents, instead. He takes the bottle, and sighs inwardly. You know me, he tells Aeron from a distance. Inside and out. I could not have deceived you if I tried.
     He is thankful of it now, really. Just look at what it's preserved him from.

     Fiona exchanges a glance with Davydd. "Well," she says judiciously. "You don't want to get her angry. You want to rouse her curiosity without making her too ... desperate ... for the answers. You could try just telling her, but that seems a bit - much, for how short a time this has been going on..."

     Three male nymphs then, comes Aeron's droll reply. They will be here hard and waiting. But you sound wistful, my king. Is something amiss?

     "That's my point," Bran says, looking to her, then his father primarily. "And I can't say: sorry, honey, we have to leave. She would think she had failed to impress. She would take it personally and spiral to a place that I am already working hard for her not to enter. She's lost. She needs a guide through this period in her life. And ... she has real talent. I don't want her to sacrifice it consciously or subconsciously."

     Balthazar stretches one of the great plumes of sun-fire known as his wings. It is like a stretch in thought, like putting one's arms behind one's head. "I think the safest place to start is to ... explain the mundane parts. Like...why are her family and friends here? What is your relationship to me? Those lines are not currently drawn. And then, once they are and you weather that revelation, you pull her into another part of the web, uncle. I mean, it's not really my forte, because I'm incapable of Trickery or deceit or acting, even. I'm not capable and in fact it makes me quite physically sick. So I don't know from past experience with the type of work and realm as you and my other uncles work and live. But it would seem safer to do that, to be honest with the parts you can be honest, easily. And then draw her in from there."

     Davydd is taking a seat finally, a glass of scotch in hand and an armful of woman. His mouth twists at Balthazar's suggestion. "He's right, boyo. Tell her what she can reasonably understand first, and let her questions and emotions guide you to the rest. Smart, Balto," he grins and takes a sip of the scotch. He looks then to the other king in residence. "What say you, Hollied Lord? This is more to your business than any of mine. I just want to make sure everyone realizes that we're honor bound now, each of us to each of them. And I wanted to make sure you boyos were done with your feudin'..."

     I am ... missing you, I suppose. And wishing that there were more that I could give you than I do. Gwilym smiles to himself, knowing that he can be heard by the one he wishes. You have not spent time around Balthazar lately, have you.
     "I think," Gwilym says slowly, "that it wouldn't hurt to offer her a carrot to go with the other bits. You want to lead her - that's fair. But we can sweeten the pot a bit, oes? Not with books or hidden places," he waves that off. "That is not directly tied to you, brawd. Give her something she can relate to, something she can appreciate. Da," he looks sidelong to Davydd, "odd question, but ... does the family own any yachts?"

     Fiona suddenly smiles, wide and fierce. "I'd help her, but the fact that I look younger than she is isn't going to help. However, Bran, there is one thing. My family. I never thought they'd help in all this, but..."

     You don't have to miss me. I am right behind you.
     There is a pinprick feeling at the back of Gwilym's neck, though there is no one visibly there. But you feel him, do you not? As only you can. He is standing right behind you, as close as the sofa allows him to be.
     And you give me enough, comes the soft thought. What more could wish from you? I have your love, do I not? I do not ask for more...
     ... and then... at last...
     I do not know that I can stay too long in nephew's company. I shall grow maudlin with romance.

     Bran turns his full attention to his brother-king. He considers what he says. He's not above bribery after all. "So... do I offer her the gift before the truth, or does the sugar come after the medicine? I'm not meant for this sort of then," he grumbles suddenly. "I'm not a romantic!"

     Davydd glances to Fiona. How like me he is, the poor bastard...

     "Sadly no," Davydd snorts. "Now, William has yachts. But I don't have William's money..."

     Balthazar looks from uncle to uncle, grandmother to grandfather in calm succession like watching doubles at Wimbeldon. "She might be suspicious of large gifts," Balthazar mentions. "Though, I gave her small gifts and she was less than impressed." His lips curl cupidic. He shrugs a little: so what do I know? "I think she might think that you're up to something with the gift of a yacht. I think things... mean little to her. It is knowledge, it is meaning, secrets, that she cares about."
     He unfurls a solar flare wing in erotic stretch of consideration, his amber eyes and beautiful face tilting upward to look at the ceiling for inspiration...

     And in the shadows, two dark red eyebrows lift, a whip of fire stealing around his ankle. Hmm... on second thought, my brother-love, I do not think three nymphs will be sufficient...

     Davydd and Bran cut a look to Fiona. "What do you have in mind?"

     "Snob appeal," Fiona answers casually. "Daddy's in the House of Lords. What does your young woman want more than anything else, Bran? Obviously we can't tell my family the truth." She looks mischievous about the very idea. "But he can help with your projects, can't he? And it gives you connections. I know you're not going to want a title or the like, and frankly, she shouldn't need it in order to love you - you're perfectly lovable on your own."
     She rearranges herself in her husband's lap, kissing him on the cheek. "We don't need yachts, do we? We need to arrange things so that a certain young woman can have her defenses dismantled long enough for her to realize she needs love as much as she needs anything else. And that's a hard thing to do - but we've got everything we need for it right here. Bran." She looks fondly at her son. "You really don't need to be romantic. You've got a castle and estate, food and drink, candlelight and access to all the jewelry and flowers you could carry. You want to win her? Sweep her off her feet. All right, boys." She hops off Davydd's lap, clapping her hands briskly. "Who's going to be the hidden orchestra?"

     Gwilym exchanges looks with his brother and father and nephew. Mum's gone off the deep end again. Worse, she has a plan. He sighs inwardly. Aeron, tell me how we're getting out of this one.

     We? What's this we? I'm invisible. It's like I'm not even here. The droll tones of his voice, amused on two levels, slips within your mind, coiling at the centermost part of your ear.
     There is the sensation, just briefly, that your ear is being nibbled. How can that be? There's no one there...

     Bran's mouth twitches. "Well... there is this ...one thing. I need to own part of an abandoned bit of sewer and subway. Do you think grandpapa could transfer that to a holding company, one that I...naturally...own? That's what she wants more than anything else. Well, that and being right. Having her intelligence confirmed and being able to prove to her mother that she's worthwhile. Her mother and your mother should meet," Bran smirks. "In a mud-pit."
     He fidgets a bit. "I don't think she wants to be swept off her feet, mum, else Lover Boy over there would have stood half a chance. She doesn't trust all that. But... I do have a ring already picked out. One from my own stores. I didn't even need to go picking about in the Davy's Dustbin," the jewelry vault, "...for the bauble."
     He is visibly uncomfortable. "Hidden orchestra!?" Bran croaks. "Mum... "

     Balthazar remains quiet, his words of caution not finding any purchase at the moment. To be honest, he hasn't the slightest idea how to woo Gillian West. It's a little odd, in fact, to be assisting in the seduction thereof. His attention draws inward.

     Davydd grins for the kiss then shakes his head at the rest. "Well... I think, if I'm not mistaken, that we have a famous musician in the house," he rolls out with all the dramatic lilt and drag he can muster, his dark green eyes settling on the detaching Balthazar. "There are several violinists in the house, and three of us can play the piano a bit. I'm not bad," he mentions with a crack of a laugh like a whip.

     "Nonsense," Fiona answers briskly. "Every girl wants to be swept off her feet. Just by the man they've decided on, and if she's agreed to marry you for any reason, your foot's already propping open that door, whether you believe so or not. So. Let me think."
     She looks judiciously up and down Bran. "You'll want a tuxedo, I think. And a private dinner, just the two of you, on the terrace. Tonight. No time like the present, and you'll want it before the big dinner with everyone present. Davydd, we can get a piano moved into the bushes, can't we? And the flowers are easy enough to arrange. So it's just a question of the ring. Bran, you need to seduce her halfway. No sex. But do kiss her and do keep an arm around her. Let her feel protected from everything except you. Oh, and it's all right to be just a tiny bit possessive. Women like that, you know, as long as it's not overdone."
     She's pulling out her cellphone. "Has she got any food allergies? What does she like to eat?"

     Bastard. Gwilym shifts away from the nibble, growling in the back of his mind. "I think I'm going to leave this one to you lot," he answers out loud. "I've a priest wandering around I've got to track down, what? He's been a bit mopey, and I think he feels a bit - isolated, with less tie to all us than the others. I don't suppose anyone feels like falling in love with him, do they?" It is only half-joking, but he breezes past it. "Mum, you've things well in hand, you don't need me for this..."

     Oh great, says the look from Balthazar to Gwilym. Go ahead and abandon me...

     In the shadows, a dark clad man tugs at reality, slipping into the Nothing that is layered between all of the Somethings in the universe with a smile.

     "A tuxedo? It's not me... she's going to see right through all this. I'll look like a trained monkey..."

     "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."

     Balthazar looks from family member to family member in silence. He's been conscripted. What if he had other plans? Sitting up, Love sighs. He realizes the futility of resisting. "I can move the piano from the music room to the terrace. I can't believe I'm saying this," he mutters.
     "She doesn't really like to eat." Two voices chime in unison, Bran's and Balthazar's. Bran smirks. Balthazar looks queasy.

     "Can't I just wear something that makes me comfortable?" Bran protests. "I'm going to look absolutely ridiculous..."

     "She doesn't like to eat?" Fiona looks frankly appalled. "What have you been doing to that poor girl? Well, never mind. We'll fix that." She shakes her head. Doesn't like to eat. What nonsense!
     "Yes, Bran, you have to wear a tuxedo, or at the very least, an absolutely smashing suit. You can likely borrow one of your father's if you can't find one that fits otherwise," Fiona informs her younger son. "Gwilym, if Bran needs any help, I'll expect you to be available to provide it. Davydd, Bran can pick out something from the jewelry gallery, can't he? And possibly some other suitably meaningful gift. I leave that between the two of you."
     "As for your skepticism," she whirls on Bran, jabbing a forefinger at him. "Look. Which one of us is the woman in this room? Hm? Which one of us has the inside scoop on what women like? How well are you doing without my advice? You want to woo her. This is how."

     Gwilym gives Balthazar a look in return. You'll be fine. You're not the one who made the mistake of telling mum you're having trouble in love and marrying.

     "I already have a ring, mother," Bran insists. "And it is perfect." There is a flash behind those green eyes. The rest he accepts with the inevitability of a hurricane. He's a bird on a branch, forced to ride it out. He exchanges looks with his father, his mouth twisting between exasperation and desperation. "Alright, a tuxedo. But no tie," Bran says. "And I've been all but spoon feeding her. She's American. They seem to feel guilty for their prosperity and take it out on their bodies with constant restrictions. Puritans. Anyway," he sighs, his leg bouncing with agitation. "You think I should give her something else other than the smashing engagement ring?"

     Balthazar rolls his eyes to his uncle. No, I've already had that chat. They want me to propose too. Only I'm not ready. I was going to give Maddie a promise ring, but now with this... it's going to look bad. Like I'm trying to keep up and not doing so very well. I bought the ring myself with my own money, thank you very much...
     The agitation that is moving through the room is starting to become contagious. The relaxed wings of solar heat and fire that have been spread luxuriously behind him are drawn upward now, erect. They begin folding against him. The look on Balthazar's face is sublime, ecstatic. He sighs (he can't help it) as they disappear. His toes reflexively curl.
     "I will help," Balthazar says. "I know enough love songs to fill up the castle," he notes. "Is there anything else, nainie?"

     "I'm not skeptical of you, mum," Bran exhales in protest. "Honestly. It just seems a bit over the top. She'll never believe I planned it. And even if she did manage to buy it, when it doesn't happen again she'll know it was a put on, that's all."
     Bran glances to Balthazar, a quiet look of Thanks.

     She loves you. She isn't going to judge y' by what her sister and my brother do. Relax, breathe, and remember you aren't him and she isn't Gillian and nobody expects y' to be. She's what, sixteen? Seventeen? They want y' to be prepared to demonstrate commitment and to be aware of what you're involved with, but nobody expects y' to be standing up there saying 'I do'. Yet.
     Gwilym claps his brother on the back and starts to do the same to his nephew, then thinks better of it. "You'll be fine, Bran. If she knows other people had a hand in it, so what? Look at it this way. You've a fine opportunity to prove t' her you're not a gold digger."

     Fiona smiles sweetly. "You're demonstrating that you come from enough money to buy and sell her family ten times over, dear," she agrees. "So that's not a motive for marrying her, right? And neither is academics. So what's left? That you love her. Enough to put on a 'monkey suit'..."

     The most stubborn men in all Christendom are gathered in a single room. We've been in love a bit longer than they have. You don't think it's going to come up? Between competitive sisters? Balthazar settles back in the chair, seemingly silent and listening. What is Love to do but be in attendance at such a thing?
     "It might be easier to arrange a guitar serenade. Perhaps a couple of guitars, if I can find an accompanist. Guitars are more tender. Piano, definitely more flashy..." He glances to his uncle Gwilym, smiling at the lack of a touch.

     Bran looks equal parts exasperated, helpless and overwhelmed. He'd cover his eyes and peek between his fingers if he could. But it's too late for that. It's also too late to tell them this was all Gillian's idea in the first place. No, it's far too late for that.
     Aeron...brawd... the least you could do is show up to cackle at me in my misery!

     Oh, but I have brother mine. I've been laughing myself into hyperventilation for at least the past half hour. Stop fussing. You love her. Are you or are you not the master of your own fate? What happened to your Darth Vader impersonation?

     Davydd looks at his son and grandson, and lastly to Fiona. "They both look like they're about ready to pass out. Let's get our marching orders, shall we? And let them get some fresh air..."

     No, I don't. If anything, there'll be so much noise over the fact that BRAN is getting married, of all people, that you and Maddie are likely to get lost in the shuffle. Be grateful and take the opportunity while it lasts. Gwilym grins and gives Bran a hug from behind. "Take care, little brother. Y' know how to find me if y' want to."
     With that, he's slipping into shadow at his father's words. He knows when to take an opening when he sees it...

     "Yes, absolutely. Goodness. There's so much to do. Davydd, you take Bran up to pick out a suit and some jewelry." Fiona is brisk. "Balthazar, you handle the musical arrangements. I'll get with the kitchen and garden staff. Everything will be just perfect, you'll see!"

     Bran smirks, reaching back to hug (punch, whatever) his older brother, missing him of course. He hits only shadow and air. Davydd's the next to give Bran a pat (and avoid doing the same to Balthazar). "Come on, boyo... first things first, a stiff drink..."

     Balthazar remains seated as Gwilym and then Davydd and Bran depart. He slumps down in the chair for a moment, his thumb and forefinger tugging at his bottom lip in thought.

Posted by rowan at June 08, 2009 06:25 PM