He has a headache. No amount of Excedrin, brandy, or cocaine is going to cure it. His one brother having departed, Gwilym Gwyn Garu stands under the shower, letting cold water course over his skin. With any luck, his cock will atrophy and fall off.
That doesn't stop him from standing in a way which protects it, mind. He's frustrated, not suicidal. Yet.
The water runs, and he has plenty of time alone with his thoughts while his court sleeps. It's the quietest the Center of All Things has been in months, if not years; it gives him time for his head to pound as he rests his forehead against granite walls, along with his forearms. Duw. How do I make this right? How do I balance things? I want to have it all; I always have. I've wrong them both...
Greed becomes you...
The greedy earth craves the blood of the teaming creatures that live upon it, swallowing them, eventually, into dust. And the sea; forget not the sea, whose avaricious waves steal shores from nations and render mountains to grains of sand. How could you, the spirit of earth's hunger, the blood and sweat and need of life, be anything but greedy?
Black talons mark the back of a throne-like chair as they have done now for several years. He's forgotten how many. Some belong to him; some, to his twin rook. The raven blinks his black eyes, glistening, listening to the water run.
I know you the best of all...
Talons turn to fingers that slip in the grooves the talons have made as the Prince of Shadows and Secrets takes a seat. Dressed in black leather with a black t-shirt, his inky black ravens in flight on the whole of his left arm, Aeron summons to himself all of the comforts of a bar, namely several varieties of whisky and a package of cigarettes. His dark red hair, thick and wavy, stands up here and there, short strands of it full-bodied. He tilts his head as his mouth grasps a stopper and pulls, the scent of juniper whiskey filling the room.
Eventually, the water's off. Gwilym emerges, owl-eyed and hair sticking up in all directions, having roughly toweled off and then tied the still-damp towel around his waist. It's his own damn castle, a man should be able to wear what he wants!
He pads barefoot from the bath and listens, then sniffs the air. Snoring; yes. Juniper? He looks around, rubbing his eyes. And he smiles lopsidedly as he sees you.
"Making y'self comfortable, oes?" Gwilym says quietly. He hobbles towards you, towels not exactly the best of clothing. "Anything to report?"
Am I coward? No. But first, sommat of courtesy before we launch...
Small-talk: tonic to the guilty. And who's more guilty than we?
Those eyes in eclipse, blackness with just the aurora borealis of emerald at the edges flick to you. That blank canvas of a face; it could mean anything. Deadly in poker, for certes. Even in the face of your smile. But that doesn't mean he's angry; you know him. His face rarely changes with his emotion unless the feelings are extreme, or he is tired.
Aeron leans over and takes a second glass, pouring one for you as well. An eyebrow twitches. "Nothing of terrible interest. Unless you're out for gossip. Or want to hear about the dead assassin. Other than that? Nothing of terrible interest," he dryly retorts.
Settling back with his drink, Aeron levels a look to you. He gauges you, studies you, tries to get the weight of you as you come over in your towel. "What's with the limp?" he wonders, lifting his glass for a drink. Your hobble is noticed. Along with your attempts to stall. But that he doesn't call out.
That he's not immediately calling out for your giblets may give you hope...
"I kicked the tub. Its feelings were hurt," Gwilym gibes. It is even true, aside from the feelings. He comes forward to take the glass, sipping at the contents. "The dead assassin has potential. Anything I should know of, brawd?" He cocks an eyebrow at you. He wants to touch your hair, but he doesn't quite dare. And he smiles again, and he goes and sits on his throne, slouching down like the nineteen year old he passes himself off as.
"Io came by." There. He's said it.
"The Hunt apprehended him." Apprehended; that's a word. What he really means is drawn-and-quartered. "I've been watching him for the past few nights. His aim wasn't for Our Majestic Nephew. He was contract to make a hit on one of the trade guild diplomats prior to next week's summit. It would seem that our Sunny Nephew's new island and its necessary territorial waters and routes has thrown the membership into something of a tizzy." The droll tone rides upon the dry dunes of his voice.
There is no ripple to your mention of Iowerth. Whiskey downed, Aeron sets his empty glass aside. He spins it in his fingers idly. That is the only hint to his emotion. "I am glad our brother has given his greetings. You've not seen much of one another. You do not have to pretend, for my sake. You do not have to do anything for my sake." Dark eyes, haloed in phosphorescent green, look to you. "I know you better than anyone. I know the secrets of your heart, remember? You owe me nothing. Not even explanation. For I have always known my Fate, brawd."
"I owe you everything." Gwilym corrects you quietly, but with that earnestness he's capable of. He looks at you, and he holds his hand out to you, beckons. "Aeron, duw, do we need to dance around your feelings and mine? Because this dance is only going to end up with a broken foot; at least one, probably more."
His smile is lopsided. He knows you are hurting. He is hurting, too. "I am not putting you aside, bach. See? Come here." He holds out both hands, dismissing the cup. It can go sit in shadows until he's ready for it again.
He looks to his hand and his empty glass as you call him, his black-green eyes needing focus elsewhere. As his fingers draw away from the glass, you can hear his skin against the surface of the frozen liquid. You can even hear the moment when skin slides into feathers.
The raven sits upon your shoulder, hunkering down. it is the only tenderness he can take just now. But his talons, though they curl at your skin, they do not scratch or mark you. You owe me nothing. What I have given, I gave of my choice and my desire. Had he not left you, I would never have been thus in your company. This...we both know. Actually, all three of us know this much.
That understanding given voice, the feel of talons slide away as the bird slips into shadows. It is not for long that he is absent, not even a full second. He stands near at hand. "I know my place," his voice is quiet, even. His gaze glances against the floor and then the nearest wall. "And I know your heart. I'm not going to begrudge... you what you need and have always needed."
He slides his hand, his fingers, down your feathered back. He listens to what you say; and he doesn't argue. You aren't wrong, after all. "I love you both," Gwilym corrects gently. You aren't wrong, but you are incomplete. "Oes, when you first came to me, it was your choice and not mine. But it's been my choice to keep you with me; even knowing it was a selfish choice because of my feelings for him."
You shift away as you speak, and he lets you go, but he looks through shadows to you, compassion and love in his eyes. How many people can lay claim to that from the Holly King? "My heart is divided. It always was; it always will be. I can't have Io to myself, and I know it. And duw." He snorts, eyes rolling with his laugh. "We'd kill each other if we were with each other to that extent."
He holds his hand out to you again. "If I'm incomplete, it's because I've missed my brother all this time, Aeron. But do you think that I will not miss you, if you go? But I do not want to cause you pain. Tell me what I can do." Emerald eyes regard you; the forests are in them, with their knowledges of thorns. He says softly, "I need tenderness sometimes, but you know what else I need, brawd. You've given it to me. D'you think that will change, my needing it?"
He knows as well as anyone, perhaps better than anyone, that the line for the Holly King's affections is long, and affections like the seasons must come and go, or like the moon and fortune, wax and wane. It's your nature. How could loving you be any different?
Aeron looks to you, his famously bland face still quiet in aspect. "I have been his pantomime. I know the dance." He gives you his hand momentarily. "What is to be done?" he wonders as if idly curious. Aeron looks to you after a time, an eyebrow raised. "You will be with him, as you will be with whomever pleases you. We are intimates, Gwilym. We are not married. What recompense needs paid to me? I am but one of a thousand who craves your attention."
Even in human form, he moves from place to place like a bird, never lighting long. He pours another round of whiskey for you both. "What arrangement do you wish? It is for you to say, My King, not I."
He sighs, closing his eyes. "There's not one person in this or any bloody world who I could marry and have it be a true marriage, Aeron. Not as marriage's defined. I need too many different things at different times, and I love Io with all my heart, but I also love you. You're different people; you give to me different things. D'you think Io would be able to nurse me through one of my," he reddens, "spells?"
Gwilym sits forward, drinking deeply and tossing his cup away. The towel shifts with him, but the knot is straining. "When I am in my darkest places, it is you who needs to save me, Aeron. It's you who not only saves me, but saves others from me, by putting yourself in harm's way and abusing me until the darkness is beaten off." Sometimes literally; sometimes figuratively. He looks at you with those emerald eyes mixing humor and despair, haunted by self-knowledge. "Io can't do that. I wouldn't ask it of him. I wouldn't ask it of you either, oes? But you volunteered for it, and you've kept me sane. I need you. I need all my brothers, but each of you means something different from me. Oes, others have my time sometimes. But if you say we are only intimates, d'you think I don't feel the urge to say you're wrong? Duw." He snorts, wringing his hand over his face. "Do I need to call down the darkness here and now to prove you wrong?"
"I know your heart. I'm not begrudging what you want or need," he repeats it quietly, taking a seat with his own drink. He swallows the whiskey fast and hard and then sets the glass aside. His fingers tangle like his heart and mind. He doesn't respond to what you say. Maybe he's just trying to understand it, accept it. He takes the space between you to stare at his hands, his body leaning forward slightly. "I drank the Holly King's wine," dark eyes lift to you, "...and ate the grapes right off the vine. And holding him, made the mistake to think him mine." He smiles a little, then the look fades into a shrug.
"I'm not going anywhere. Where would I go? To what purpose? This is all I know. As I said: I know my fate, brawd. It's cast. I follow it." His shoulders lift and lower again and for a moment, he is completely open and honest in his vulnerability. "Serving you..." Aeron pauses. "Loving you... is my life and my breath. I tried to fill that hole in your heart. I had hoped to fill it. But it is his country, that space. So... I guess I keep what's mine and surrender to him that which belongs to him. So long as you are whole, then what's the difference I suppose."
As he looks away, he begins to close the gate on such wanton honesty. It feels tawdry. You see him as he straightens, trying to compose himself to seem as unaffected as everyone believes him to be. "I do not know that I want to ... pass him ...coming and going from your chambers. Are we to ...continue?" His dark eyes shift to you. "I shall throw myself upon your darkness regardless. Because you and the world need it of me." That will not change, even if you do send him from your bed.
He gives you a look of abject frustration. "Of course I'm not sending you from my bed. My brother has his husband; that's not changing. D'you think Io and I will be in each other's hip pockets? Perhaps once, but that changed years ago, and had nothing t'do with you or with sex. Well. Not sex with me," Gwilym allows. Sex with Tiernan or with other men, maybe.
He drags his hand back through his hair. "This is getting us nowhere. I love you. You as much as he, complete me. I'm going to call him here and the three of us will work it out." Or else. He stands.
"I'm not trying to be difficult," Aeron bristles a bit. "I'm just ...trying to understand where I fit and what I'm supposed to be doing. Who I'm supposed to be. If nothing changes then... nothing changes." He pauses, a wry look settling on his face. "You know I don't like change."
But he doesn't stop you from calling your other brother. Aeron merely leans back and over, reaching for a third glass. He pours another around, including one for the Ex-King.
"I didn't like Loki either. Or Melissandre. Or that other one, the one with the boats. Well, her I don't mind. She has a brain..." He doesn't belabor the point. He does you the courtesy, giving you full credit for being intelligent enough to figure it out.
"Joanna." He figures out who you mean, indeed, and he shrugs a little, closing his eyes and exhaling, though he remains standing. "Brawd, there will always be holes inside of me that can't be plugged. It's the way I am. No one can 'fix' me, not even I can. Some of it is just the weight of who I am and what I do. I've had to come to terms with it or die."
He wants to reach out to you. He wants to hug you, but you are so far away, and it puts him in despair. Gwilym signs, reaching out a hand and letting it fall to his towel-clad thigh. Io...
Come help me talk to Aeron...
He is feeling - supplanted...
It's funny how few words he can find now. He is wrestling, in a small part, with a thread of darkness.
Supplanted? Aeron? I will be there as soon as I can. I'll need to wait until the seventh inning stretch.
Aeron looks up, exhaling, and finishing his fourth whiskey he rises. He cannot resist you when you need him. He appears at your shoulder, a hand landing there, solidly but not firmly. As ever, touches come when he is ready. The shadow must consent to be caught, must it not, before Pan can grasp it.
An inky black arm surrounds your waist and he bends, resting his chin upon your shoulder next. Breathing in and breathing out, Aeron closes his eyes. "Whatever you wish of me, you shall have," he whispers. "My love is sacrosanct even as it is forbidden."
No one blasphemes like Aeron...
"Tell me you love me. I want to hear it," comes the hush of his voice. "And I will be contented."
That will be soon enough...
Gwilym looks to you, as your hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns, his arms going around you in return. He pulls you in against him, mouth against your hair. He gives you a little shake, and he bends to kiss you, a thorough, blinding, tearing kiss.
"I love you, you idiot," Gwilym growls against your mouth. His arms stay wrapped around you, only the towel as armor between his heart (it's in his pants) and you. "That's it, I'm getting my name tattooed on your arse as proof of ownership. If that's what it takes for y' to realize that I'm not letting y' go. Come on, then. Let's go. We'll go have a parlor in London do it." He smirks at you wickedly, then drags you in for another kiss.
His mouth in your mouth, there was a hissed sigh for the claiming of it, and something of a sob in the naming of your ownership. Don't put me aside. And there beneath the pantomime of his indifference (it's an act), there is the glimmer of his heart and the easing of his panic.
His hands come up to your face as you pull him in, halting the kiss just short. "And mine on yours," he says, his gaze lifting to you with that confidence, that near-arrogance you saw the first time he kissed you.
And he kisses you with the slinking of shadows and the scrape and claw of talons, parting it with an exhalation of his worry. "You are the only one I shall ever love," he speaks the extraordinary secret in a hush at your ear. "My blood, my sweat, my tears, my laughter: I would lay them all at your feet for the slightest smile. You know that, oes?"
He groans for your kiss, his arms tightening around you. A hand comes up to stroke your hair. He holds onto you, grateful just for your physical presence, kiss dropping to your forehead. "Oes," Gwilym sighs, quietly. "I know."
I could wish it otherwise. Loving me is painful and hard, and sure to come to a bad end...
"I know," the Holly King repeats. And he stays where he is, resting his lips against your hair.
Posted by rowan at June 08, 2010 07:50 PM
